Code Of Conduct
by tlyxor-1
Summary: A year after the war, Gwen Potter joins SHIELD. It's a life in the shadows, and a perpetual dance with death, but for the Witch Who Won, SHIELD - and Clint Barton - is exactly what she needs. She just doesn't know it yet. AU. Clint/Gwen. Fem!Harry. Pre-MCU. Post-Hogwarts, Post OOTP.
1. Part I: Prologue

**Code of Conduct**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own 'Harry Potter' or 'Avengers'. All recognisable characters, content or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Summary:** The hardest thing in this world… is to live in it. Gwyneth Potter - veteran, assassin, survivor - knows this, and yet… "There's always going to be something worth fighting for." Post hogwarts. Fem!Harry. Clint/Gwen

 **Rating:** T for language, violence, and references to death, torture, adult themes and such things.

 **Author:** tlyxor1.

 **Author's Note:** For Amanda, who lived a full life, but whom died too early. You'll be missed.

 **Part One: Living With Ghosts**

" _Life is about choices. Some we regret, some we're proud of. Some will haunt us forever." - Graham Brown._

 **Prologue: Snow**

 _December 25th, 2002_

They're curled up in their tent, but Gwen's eyes are on the snow outside, and despite the cold, Hermione's nearly asleep. They've been alone for a while, Ron had left weeks ago, and the bland, meagre dinner of soup and stale bread sits heavy in her stomach. She thinks about Remus and Tonks, and the pregnancy halfway passed. She thinks about Dumbledore, about the war, about all the people she's already killed, and the friends she's already lost. Mostly though, she thinks about her life before Hogwarts, and Hermione seems to read her mind.

"Do you ever wish you'd never learned about magic?"

Gwyneth exhales, and the possessive, protective grip on her wand is a reflex she can't - and doesn't bother trying to - hide. She relaxes though, settles further against the small armchair, and watches as Hermione turns over to face her. Cinnamon eyes are expectant, and the younger of the two shrugs, uncertain of her answer. "I don't know."

Hermione is silent for a long time, and Gwen wonders if she's fallen asleep. She shifts again though, turns to face the open tent flap, and sighs audibly. "I miss my parents."

Gwen should probably say that she does as well, but the truth is, she can't miss what she's never known, and so she says nothing. Instead, she turns her gaze towards the horizon, and exhales slowly.

Outside, there's a structure in the distance, and though Hermione worries, Gwyneth does not. That structure is her ancestral home, _Ysgarlad_ , or in English, _Scarlet_ , and Gwen knows they have nothing to fear from there. The place is locked down, however, and they have no chance to get inside without alerting the government that Potter Manor has been reopened, in which case, Voldemort and his cronies would be all over them like white on rice.

And so instead, she sits, watches, and wonders what her childhood would have been like within the estate's hallowed halls.

She almost feels _home_.

"When this is over, I'm going to go find my parents," Hermione declares quietly. Glibly, she adds, "Provided I make it that far, of course."

They're no longer so squeamish about death. They've killed too many times, buried too many friends, and perhaps their almost _callus_ nature should be disturbing. It hurts, of course, the loss of friends and fellow comrades in the guerrilla warfare they're all entrenched in, in the shadows and the secrets and the endless dead, but if they don't harden their hearts, than they're all likely to fall apart.

"I don't think I'll come back. This world…" Hermione trails off, searches for words, and eventually settles on, "There are too many ghosts."

Gwen's smile is tremulous, but her voice is not. "I think that's the best idea you've ever had, Hermione."

She wishes she could say it's a surprise, but she thinks Hermione's decision has been a long time coming. Their entry into the magical world has been fraught with death and despair from the very beginning, and the truth is, Gwen's inclined to do the same; to leave the magical world behind, and to never look back.

And so she does, and she doesn't regret it.

 **Author's Note:** I'm having a hell of a time with Chapter 3, but this beast is probably the most detailed thing I've ever endeavoured to write. Hope you enjoy it.

Originally, I wasn't going to publish it until I'd completed 'Shelter From The Storm' or 'Resolution'. Circumstances changed, however, but I won't go into those details.

Anyway, thanks for reading. Again, I hope you enjoyed. Until next time, -t.

 **Author's Note 2:** (28th July, 2015). I've edited, because some sort of rating nazi has threatened to report abuse of the rating system. Fact is, I changed it after I'd posted the first chapter, since, you know, I felt it didn't warrant the M rating. Apologies for any offence, but seriously, so ridiculous…


	2. Part I: Chapter One

**Code Of Conduct**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter or Avengers. All recognisable characters, content or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: Living With Ghosts**

" _Life is about choices. Some we regret, some we're proud of. Some will haunt us forever." - Graham Brown._

 **Chapter One: Escape**

 _21st October, 2004_

Colwyn Bay was a seaside town located on the north-western coast of Wales. It was singularly muggle, with a population of up to 30 thousand, and for Gwen, it represented her escape from the magical world, and from the expectations and obligations therein. It was sometimes lonely, but she spent her days on the beach, her nights in one of the local pubs, and Gwen thought that, given time, she could call it home. She'd been there for a couple of months already, and every day, she found something new to love. It was so far removed from Little Whinging, or Hogsmeade village, or anywhere else she'd been, and some days, Gwen thought she could be happy forever.

Then there were the other days, when the ghosts threatened to drag her into an abyss she'd never escape, and Gwen forgot why she bothered to get out of bed every morning.

" _What are you running from_?"

She smiled wanly, swirled her whisky in her tumbler, and answered, " _Everything_."

The Welsh rolled off her tongue easily, the fluency acquired from an elderly neighbour on Privet Drive. Apparently, she'd been speaking it when she'd arrived there in 1986, and old mrs Prichard hadn't been willing to let her forget it. Other languages had joined her repertoire over the years, but Gwen had always considered Welsh the first, and it was nice to be surrounded by likeminded individuals.

" _What are you looking for, then_?"

Gwen sighed, savoured the last of her whisky for the night, and answered, " _Not sure yet, Will. I'll let you know when I find out._ "

Will, the bartender at her usual haunt, nodded his acknowledgement, accepted the 20 quid she offered him, and insisted he drive her home. He'd become a friend over the last few weeks, it was nearly closing time, and she had no reason to refuse.

Even though she _was_ capable of getting home on her own, it was nice to be taken care of. It felt as though it had been a long time since she'd been treated thus, and Gwen had chosen to welcome it when such occasions arose. Those occasions were few and far between, however, given her propensity to distrust strangers, but they were pleasant while they lasted.

"Alright, William," she acquiesced, "No funny business though, buddy."

Will grinned his amusement, nodded, and began to close up the bar. He was really quite handsome, with auburn hair flecked red and gold and caramel, with bright, cornflower blue eyes and an easy smile. He was tall and lean, and perhaps if he'd known her past, Gwen might have considered flirting. She'd not had a long term partner since Hogwarts, though, and she had no real desire to change that.

Not when she was still so damaged.

Maybe not ever.

There was something infinitely easier about no-strings-attached flings, and Gwen was far too jaded to commit to anything beyond a roll in the hay and a decent breakfast the next morning.

The last stragglers filed out, Gwen herself began stacking stools and such, and a few minutes later, the pair were outside, hands shoved into coat pockets, the autumn chill exacerbated by the coastal breeze from the Irish Sea. It wasn't quite like her time in Scotland, when the highland cold seemed to settle permanently deep in her bones, but all the same, she rushed towards her friend's car, curled up in the passenger seat, and hovered her hands over the air vents until her fingers stopped aching.

"You ever think about leaving here?" Will queried, the English a surprise. He rarely spoke it - not to her, anyway - but Gwen didn't question it. They were still in the United Kingdom, after all, and most _everyone_ spoke English to a certain degree.

"I just arrived," she answered, "I was planning on settling, actually."

She'd already spent 12 months travelling after the war's end. Mainland Europe, to Asia, to South Africa, to the Americas, and to the Pacific, too, running from her past - forever running - before finally, she'd opted to settle in Mrs Prichard's home town in search of something she still hadn't found.

Peace, maybe.

Will appeared surprised. "I figured you were just passing through."

"Nope," she denied, "Why? Are you sick of me already?"

"That's exactly it," Will deadpanned. He pulled into her small driveway, put his car in park, and admitted, "Actually, I was asking because if you were planning on leaving, I was going to ask if I could join you."

As Gwen took in his words, her gaze landed on the small cottage she'd rented out from a little old lady who lived a few houses down. It was a single storey affair, with two bedrooms and a solitary, cramped bathroom, but it was comfortable - enough for her - and Gwen had no complaints. It was just a few minutes walk from the urban centre of Colwyn Bay, and a few minutes from the coast as well, and it was all Gwen needed.

With a hum, she tilted her head, eyed him thoughtfully, and commented, "It's a big world, Will."

"I know," he answered, "I want to see it."

"Then don't let me stop you," Gwen answered, "I'm not worth that."

Will's gaze, deep and fathomless, felt heavy against her own. "You're worth a lot more than you give yourself credit for, Gwen."

She forced a chuckle, opened his car door, and acknowledged, "Right, Will. I'll believe it when I see it."

With a wave, she climbed out of the car, thanked him for the lift, and approached her front door. She slipped inside, locked the door behind her, and watched as William pulled out of her drive. He disappeared into the night, Gwen retreated into her bathroom, and pushed the thoughts of her friend's words out of her mind. He didn't know of the blood on her hands, the taint on her soul, and selfishly, she wasn't about to tell him.

Ignorance was bliss, after all. Maybe she couldn't have it, but that didn't mean William Jones, with his unconditional kindness and his heart on his sleeve, couldn't, either.

Methodically, Gwen scrubbed off her makeup, combed her hair, and cleaned her teeth. She shuffled into her bedroom, changed into her pyjamas, and dropped gracelessly onto her bed, comfortably buzzed. The whisky had left her feeling weightless, unburdened by the demons of her past, and Gwen closed her eyes, imagined her future, and drifted off to sleep with a hopeful smile on her face.

It didn't last, of course. Gwen hadn't had a peaceful night of sleep since that first night after Voldemort's downfall. At the time, she'd been far too exhausted to dream, and had passed out from excessive, celebratory - and mourning - alcohol consumption besides.

In her sleep, the ghosts haunted her. Death Eaters dead at her hands, comrades killed at the hands of others, the expressions of terrified innocents whom the Order of the Phoenix had failed to save.

They were all the same, really - victims of war - but worst of all, unsurprisingly, were the memories that dogged her every step. Malfoy Manor, Hogsmeade, Godric's Hollow - _everything_ \- blurred together in her dreams to become an incomprehensible mess of death and despair and destruction, until Gwen was lost in it, unable to tell nightmare from reality, and unwilling to, regardless.

In her dreams, she suffered her penance.

Gwen woke with a smothered scream, damp with sweat and cold in the night. She curled up beneath her sheets, stared at the ceiling, and traced out pictures in the shadows of her room until her shivers had ceased, the spike of adrenaline had waned, and she was weary once again. She wouldn't get anymore sleep, she knew, but Gwen traced the ridges of fading scars, remembered the causes of every single one, and wished for oblivion.

That way, maybe she'd forget.

A girl could dream.

In the past, it used to be called 'Battle Fatigue'. Soldiers would return home from war, but they'd never truly left the war behind, and thus, they'd never stopped fighting. These days, it was called Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), and she hated the term. A _disorder_ implied there was something _wrong_ with her, but there wasn't. She'd _survived_ , and that was that.

Whatever the case, all Gwen really knew was that, no matter how hard she tried, she would never be the same again.

 **Author's Note:** I was pretty much just waiting for this story to receive a hundred alerts before I posted. I won't update again until Friday/Saturday. I hope you enjoyed. Thanks for reading. Leave a review. Until next time, -t.

 **Author's Note 2:** Edited the 16th of June.


	3. Part I: Chapter Two

**Code Of Conduct**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter or Avengers. All recognisable characters, content or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: Living With Ghosts**

" _Life is about choices. Some we regret, some we're proud of. Some will haunt us forever." - Graham Brown._

 **Chapter Two: Samhain**

 _31st October, 2004_

Gwen watched, disinterested, as the smoke from Will's cigarette floated upwards and out of sight, closed her eyes, and failed to shake her melancholy. She was tired, weighed down by another sleepless night, but Will had been enthusiastic about the trick or treaters, and Gwen was listless enough to acquiesce to her friend's ridiculous demands.

Evidently, he'd taken offence to the fact that Gwen didn't celebrate Halloween (or Samhain), and the girl hadn't had it in her to taint his perception of the occasion. Instead, she teased him about smoking when children were sure to be nearby, laughed unabashedly at his Lord of the Rings costume, and begrudgingly dressed herself in a makeshift Star Wars equivalent for the occasion.

"My buddies are having a Halloween party," Will informed her, "Did you want to head over later?"

Gwen tilted her head, considered her friend, and shrugged. "Is Haden going to be there?"

"I'd count on it," Will answered. "He loves his parties."

Gwen grimaced. Haden was a relentless skirt chaser, and ever since they'd met, he'd been determined to get into Gwen's knickers. She wasn't interested, and she'd told him such in no uncertain terms, but Haden was a persistent bastard, and something told Gwen he enjoyed the chase more than he probably should have.

"I think I'll stay home," she determined, "I don't want to deal with him tonight."

"Alright," Will acquiesced, "I've harassed you enough for one day, I guess."

"Too bloody right," Gwen agreed, took a swig of her cider, and cast her gaze towards the street. She could see costumed children out and about with older chaperones, could hear their laughter on the wind, but couldn't shake her own melancholy for the life of her. She didn't care for the 31st of October - how could she? - but without even intending to, she'd somehow surrounded herself with people who lived for it, and Gwen had pushed enough friends away for one lifetime. She wouldn't do it again.

Gwen yawned, settled further against her outdoor two-seater, and stared blankly at the stars overhead. Her sleep the night before had been restless, full of half-remembered dreams and unwelcome memories. In the morning, she'd made the half hour train ride to Godric's Hollow to visit her parents' graves, only to return to Colwyn Bay in time for a late, half-hearted lunch. The fatigue had finally caught up to her though, and Gwen was ready for Halloween to be over. Over the years, though, she'd taken up the habit of waiting out the entire night,, and there was a while yet before midnight struck.

" _Why The Bay?_ "

"I never saw the ocean before," she answered, " _And Wales is in my blood._ "

Both of her grandfathers, Charlus Potter and Robert Evans had both been from Wales, though from different parts. Charlus had lived in the hallowed halls of 'Ysgarlad', as the heir - and eventually, the lord - of the unplottable, magical land known as the Northern Moors. Contrarily, Robert Evans had lived in Swansea, in a Depression era household where money was tight and where family was everything, and where magic was no more than fairytale.

Of course, Gwen didn't learn that from Petunia, who'd never learned a lick of Welsh, and who'd certainly not appreciated it spoken in her household. It was later that Gwen had understood: Petunia had been envious that Lily had taken so much after their father in mannerisms and resemblance, and the reminder of her supposed shortcomings as a daughter hadn't been wanted or welcomed. It certainly didn't justify her treatment of Gwen, but at least it explained things, and by the time Gwen was 17, she'd not even cared anyway.

"Well I'm glad," Will acknowledged, and nudged her lightly. Again, the jump back to English was a surprise, but again, Gwen didn't remark on it. "I'm glad to know you, whisky benders and all."

"How charming," she quipped, drained the last of her cider, and contemplated another one. She'd recently acquired a taste for the drink - at least when she wasn't drowning herself in whisky - but she'd already had four, and it was probably enough for the night.

"I try," William answered, drained his own cider, and observed, "I reckon we've seen the last of the runts."

Gwen watched the street, nodded her agreement, and helped herself to the bowl of sweets between them. She munched on a jelly snake, grimaced at the blend of flavours on her tongue, and got to her feet while Will got ready to leave.

" _Have fun tonight_."

" _I will. Get some sleep, yeah? You look half dead._ "

Will left, Gwen cleaned up, and afterwards, she settled on her couch, switched on a movie, and waited for the remainder of Halloween to pass her by. She was anxious, prepared for something to interrupt her well-earned peace, and as the clock struck eleven, and as her doorbell sounded around the small cottage, she slumped in resignation, her head dropped, and her sigh was weary.

It was _always_ Halloween.

Collecting herself quickly, Gwen switched off her television, felt for the wand she kept holstered to her forearm, and for the twin daggers sheathed at the small of her back. She'd learned the hard way to never go anywhere without them - even in her own home - and it was a lesson Gwen had taken to heart.

Comforted by their presence, and the knowledge that she had a supply of other weapons, poisons, and magical foci spread around her house, she approached her front door, glanced through one of the windows that framed the front door, and arched a surprised eyebrow.

Kingsley Shacklebolt, British Minister of Magic, former auror, former comrade, and wizard, was on her doorstep.

And he wasn't alone.

Still wary, and uncertain what to think about her surprise guests, Gwen cracked her door open, eyed the former member of Dumbledore's Order of the Phoenix critically, and made no move to let him - or his companion - inside her house.

"Shack," she greeted, "It's been a while."

"I come in peace," he answered, tone deadpan.

Gwen chuckled, recognised the expression for what it was, and opened her door further. She wasn't thrilled that they'd been keeping tabs on her, but she was surprised to find how good it felt to see a familiar face. Gwen had left the magical world behind and had cut most of her ties along the way, but she hadn't realised how much she'd missed everyone until Kingsley Shacklebolt was stood on her stoop, an easy smile on his face.

She and Kingsley had teamed up on a fair number of operations during the war, had even become friends despite the circumstances and the age gap between them, and her smile was a little more genuine.

At least it was a pleasant surprise this year.

Kingsley and his companion stepped inside, and she observed that the latter, dressed in a crisp suit and tie, appeared as far from magical as one could get. Of course, looks were deceiving, and Gwen wasn't about to make assumptions, but she _did_ wonder why Kingsley had just brought a stranger into her home.

"Gwen, I'd like you to meet Agent Phil Coulson, of SHIELD."

"SHIELD?" She echoed, and led the two into her living room. She offered them each refreshments that were gracefully denied, settled across from them, and waited for the explanation she knew would come.

"SHIELD is a covert agency that deals with the threats other organisations can't," Coulson explained, "They're predominantly paranormal in nature, but we also deal with major crime syndicates, drug cartels, human trafficking rings, so forth and so forth. Essentially, anything any of the other alphabet agencies can't handle."

Gwen nodded her understanding, hands clasped in her lap, and queried, "What can I do for SHIELD?"

"SHIELD is interested in recruiting you," Kingsley answered, "I was informed, and chose to act as a witness of the magical government. It is entirely your choice, but if you agree to join the agency, old Croker will have to find out."

Algernon Croker was the head of the Department of Mysteries. He'd also been an Unspeakable Field Operative in his hay day, had done a mighty job of kicking arse during the wars against Grindelwald and Voldemort, respectively, and last Gwen had heard, he did a mighty fine job of terrifying the new field recruits, too. Gwen had been offered a place within the ranks, but when they'd asked, Gwen had just recently killed Voldemort, she was world weary and grieving, and further combat was so far out of the realm of possibility, she'd actually laughed in the recruiter's face.

It had been over a year since then, however. She'd moved on from the loss of friends loved and lost, she'd not necessarily come to terms with it, but she'd accepted that in regards to the lives she'd taken, and with the lives she'd not been able to save, there was nothing she could change now. It had been a hard road, interspersed with the regular train, plane, or ship hop, and although Gwen had seriously considered settling in the Bay, she'd realised that a life of leisure was not for her.

And that was alright.

"What would I be doing in SHIELD?"

Coulson explained that Gwen's role in SHIELD, to begin with, would be as a probationary field agent under his command. He had two other active field agents under his authority, and until Gwen was deemed capable, she would train with and shadow them both. It was a job that took advantage of her skill set, and the hazard pay was remarkable, and it would help keep children innocent another day.

It was exactly what she was made for, really. How could she refuse? Plus, Croker's expression would be priceless.

She smiled, though there was no real mirth behind her expression; just an acknowledgement of facts, and an unspoken acquiescence. "Where do I sign up?"

 **Author's Note:** Because I won't be in any frame of mind to post this tomorrow.


	4. Part I: Chapter Three

**Code Of Conduct**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter or Avengers. All recognisable characters, content or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: Living With Ghosts**

" _Life is about choices. Some we regret, some we're proud of. Some will haunt us forever." - Graham Brown._

 **Chapter Three: Change**

 _4th - 5th December, 2004_

After Voldemort's resurrection in 2000, Gwen had been trained - extensively - by the Department of Mysteries'. They'd made liberal use of time turners, and most every other advantage at their disposal, but by the end of that summer, Gwen had been powerful, had been trained, and had been prepared for the war that had brewed overhead. She'd been at loose ends afterwards, when Voldemort was dead and gone, but although her particular skill set had no longer been useful, she'd continued to train - just in case.

In retrospect, Gwen was glad she had. Others had let themselves go, had chosen to embrace the peaceful lifestyle, to put down their weapons and to never look back. Gwen, with a list of enemies as long as her forearm, and traumatised by the war to boot, had not had that luxury. The fact that she was still in excellent physical condition, and also combat ready at a moment's notice, would surely come in handy in the coming months.

Coulson had explained that she'd undergo a 6 week training program to ensure her skills were up to par, but that wouldn't start until January, and before then, she had loose ends to tie up, bills to be paid, among other things, and Gwen had no intention to leave everything to the last minute. She'd grown out of that habit years ago, when her only concern had been homework and class projects, and her (new) job was a lot more important than _those_.

With an exhale, Gwen dropped gracelessly onto her yoga mat, glanced around her sparse living room, and smiled to herself, bittersweet. She'd packed up her things, they'd been collected and were already on their way to Washington DC, and Gwen would follow suit in a number of days. Will had already left the Bay, backpacking across Europe as he'd anticipated for months, Gwen had paid the last of her rent cheques, and she'd be sad to leave Colwyn Bay behind. She'd not stayed long - barely a blip on the locals' radar, really - but the coastal town had left it's impression, and the former Gryffindor was sure she'd be back - eventually.

That said, she _was_ looking forward to her move. It was a fresh start, of sorts, in a country whose legend of the 'Girl Who Lived' and the 'Witch Who Won' was greatly diminished, where she could disappear into the millions of foreigners who'd chosen to call America home. Colwyn Bay had been wonderful - a refuge from the demons of her past - but with a definitive future ahead of her, the Bay was no longer what Gwen needed.

That was why, when she boarded a plane from Cardiff to Washington DC two days later, she had no regrets. She was anxious and excited, certainly, but with the support of those friends whom she'd not cut ties with, and the certainty that she'd be helping to make the world a safer place, she had no doubts in her decision, and Gwen was determined for it to stay that way.

As the plane soared westward, she withdrew a novel from her bag, settled into the business class seat she'd purchased for herself, and wiled away the hours with a Bryce Courteney classic: ' _The Power of One_ '. Eventually, however, the plane taxied into Washington DC, she disembarked with the rest of her fellow passengers, and trudged her way through immigrations, baggage collection, and customs with bloodshot eyes, dragging footsteps, and a weary smile. Her day, however, wasn't yet over.

From the airport, she boarded an express train to Georgetown, and from there, she caught a taxi to her new address. It was a medium-sized, comfortably furnished home purchased by Dorea Black, and meticulously maintained by one of her house elves, and for Gwen, it was more than she really needed. Of course, there was no real certainty about how much time, exactly, would be spent within the property, but the former Gryffindor had no complaints and likely, the house elf, Lottie, would ensure Gwen would remained satisfied.

"Will Mistress Gwyneth be wanting anything?"

"Yes, thank you, Lottie, just some dinner, please."

She kicked off her shoes by the door, trudged her way towards the kitchen, and settled herself at the dining table with her novel. Her thoughts, however, were on what she'd need to do in the days to come, and even the prospect of planning left her tired. The jet lag likely contributed, of course.

"Will electronics work in this house, Lottie?"

"Yes, MIstress," Lottie replied, "It is being a muggle house."

Which essentially meant that it was hooked up to the local power grid and water mane, and the use of magic would be kept at a minimum. Gwen didn't mind, really, since she'd barely used it in the last year, anyway, though she _did_ wonder if Lottie would be alright.

Lottie deposited a serving of roast lamb, pureed potatoes and assorted vegetables in front of Gwen, who dug in heartily, thanked the elf for her efforts, and proceeded to eat to her heart's content. As she did, she thought over the things she'd need to purchase for the house, or for herself, and silently mourned the US' legal drinking age.

Alcohol, it seemed, was out of the question.

"Bugger," she mumbled, thoughts on how on earth she'd survive the next 20 odd months without her whisky - or anything, really.

"Is everything being satisfactory, Mistress?"

"Yes, Lottie," Gwen answered, "The food is lovely. Thank you, again."

"It is Lottie's honour to serve, Mistress."

Lottie curtsied and popped out of sight, Gwen lost herself in the silence, and it wasn't until later, when her plate was empty and a shopping list had been written, that she stirred from her seat. She stretched, yawned heartily, and trudged towards the bedroom she'd already decided to call her own. It was the master suite, with cream coloured walls and darkly polished floorboards, and it was lovely.

At least, Gwen thought so.

The house had already been furnished when Gwen had learned of it, and the master bedroom was no exception. Darkly polished wood furniture; a king size bed, two bedside tables, two chests of drawers, and a singular vanity. There was a walk in wardrobe and a magically enlarged attached bathroom, and although the place was blatantly designed for two, Gwen had appreciated the aesthetics from the get go. She had no real intentions of changing anything but the sheets and such things, but as she dressed for bed, she left such thoughts for another day. Instead, she got comfortable between luxurious linens, closed her eyes, and fell asleep to thoughts of her future.

In the morning, over breakfast, Gwen learned that Lotti hadn't worked in the DC house permanently. She'd visited on a bi-monthly basis, but otherwise, much of her time had been spent either at Ysgarlad - Potter Manor - or at one of the many other Potter properties across the globe. She'd sensed Gwen's intentions to move, however, and had thus moved too, in preparation for Gwen's arrival.

"I'm expecting a delivery in the next few days," Gwen informed Lottie, "It's mostly just my personal effects, but the delivery service is muggle. Will that be a problem?"

"No, Mistress," Lottie answered, "I is just being wearing a glamour."

Upon Gwen's perplexed expression, Lottie used her magic to cover herself in a disguise, and in the blink of an eye, a middle-aged hispanic woman stood in Lottie's place, dressed as a cleaner, with a matronly smile on her face. It was astounding, really, and Gwen was impressed.

"Magic never fails to surprise me," she remarked, and returned to her breakfast. She'd already learned that the electricity and water had been switched on - courtesy of Lottie's hispanic alter ego - and without any other questions to ask, Gwen's thoughts were on her plans for the day ahead.

She was shopping with the intention of planting roots here, in America, and to Gwen, the thought was terrifying. She had spent the last 15 months or so as a nomad, with no where to call home and what have you, and there had been something comforting in her freedom to pack up, to leave, and to do so without qualms.

With a job and bills to pay and a contract signed, Gwen couldn't do that here.

"I'll be heading out today," she said, and Lottie listened attentively, "I'll be buying things for the house, and such. Electronics, mostly. Did you need anything?"

Lottie looked startled, and Gwen idly wondered if she'd ever been asked that before. "Mistress is not needing to by Lottie things. I is having all I is wanting."

"Alright," Gwen acknowledged, and didn't pursue the conversation further. She finished her breakfast instead, and afterwards, Gwen dressed for her day, left the house, and proceeded to find her way to the nearest shopping centre.

It would do her well to learn her surroundings, as she'd been taught, so once her errands were done, Gwen wandered the streets around her house, took note of cars and neighbours and such things, and finally returned to her place shortly after midday. It was still foreign to her,but Gwen was hopeful that she would - eventually - come to call Georgetown home. In the meantime, she still had a great deal of settling in to do, a job to start and hopefully, friends to make, but there was still time, and the witch felt she had all the time in the world.


	5. Part I: Chapter Four

**Code Of Conduct**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter or Avengers. All recognisable characters, content or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: Living With Ghosts**

" _Life is about choices. Some we regret, some we're proud of. Some will haunt us forever." - Graham Brown._

 **Chapter Four: Christmas**

 _25th December, 2004_

The invitation to Coulson's Christmas shindig was a surprise, though a welcome one. She'd not been anticipating another Christmas alone, and even though the man had added the disclaimer that the only kind of food he could guarantee was the Chinese take out kind, Gwen had found herself looking forward to it. Between the non-stop errands, and her tendency to keep stranger's at an arm's distance, she'd been lonely. As much as Lottie tried, the house elf's subservient nature simply made things awkward, and so more often than not, Gwen had found herself alone.

Upon reflection, it was rather absurd how much she'd gotten used to Will's companionship in such a short amount of time. She missed him though, and their emails were scattered and infrequent. As far as she could tell, however, he was having the time of his life, and Gwen wasn't about to burst his bubble with word that she was lonely, and would he hurry his trip up already? Instead, she spent her time badgering Hermione - who lived in Australia these days - through their own email exchanges and, more recently, through the wonder that was MSN Messenger.

Andromeda Tonks sent the occasional email as well, updating Gwen on Teddy's life and what have you, and Gwen lived for those messages. The woman wasn't the best with technology, however, and such emails were therefore infrequent as well, but beggars couldn't be choosers, and in the end, it was better than nothing.

Christmas Day arrived, and Gwen sent Lottie off to Ysgarlad to celebrate the holiday with the other elves there. She'd liberated an aged bottle of scotch from Charlus Potter's stores - - for Coulson - and she'd dressed for the occasion, but as she left the house, Gwen found herself nervous.

These weren't people she'd known forever, weren't the friends and allies she'd fought side by side with.

In fact, excepting Coulson, these were people she'd never met.

Her new team would be there, however, Agents Barton and Romanov, and Coulson had encouraged the meeting. A certain degree of trust would need to be established for them to work cohesively, and in Coulson's words, there was no time like Christmas.

With that in mind, Gwen made the hour's drive to Fredericsburg with the accompaniment of The Corrs' most recent studio album. Her car was new, a fairly nondescript SUV Gwen had bought as soon as she'd received her US license. The roads were icy though, the drivers reckless, and she was glad to arrive at her destination in one piece.

Agent Coulson lived in a small, comfortably sized house in a nondescript middle-class neighbourhood of Fredericsburg. It was decked out in Christmas paraphernalia, fairy lights and tinsel and even a Santa Claus figurine, and it was hard to believe a high ranking SHIELD operative called this place home. It was cute though, and despite herself, Gwen smiled.

Perhaps, she thought, that was the point. In their line of work, it was hard to find things worth smiling about, after all.

Carefully, Gwen dropped from her car, tightened her scarf around her neck, and gathered the things she'd brought for the occasion. A chocolate pudding, a tin of chocolate fudge, and another of shortbread biscuits, as well as the scotch and her own handbag. It left her without hands free, however, and Gwen spent a moment by her car, not particularly eager to leave it unlocked, but also unwilling to put everything back down.

Behind her, she registered the crunch of footsteps over fallen snow, and then…

"Do you need some help?"

Gwen turned to acknowledge the new arrival. He wasn't particularly tall - 5'11", 6' at most - but he was broad and stocky, with eyes a curious blend of blue and grey, and ash blonde hair in a military style buzz cut. He wore jeans and a cable knit sweater, sans a scarf, gloves and any other miscellaneous winter things, and he was very, very attractive.

"I'd love some help, thank you," Gwen answered. He nodded his acknowledgement, tucked a tin under either arm, and took hold of the pudding dish with curious eyes. Gwen locked up, took back the tins and acquiesced when he insisted he'd carry the pudding. They approached Coulson's house side by side, and the silence was awkward.

"I'm Gwen," she said, for lack of anything else to say.

"Clint," he answered, "Did you make this?"

Gwen shook her head, no. She'd not baked in years - she'd never wanted to, in truth - and she thought that if she'd tried, Lottie might have just burst into tears. In any case, after her childhood on Privet Drive, such domestic pleasures left a bitter taste in her mouth, and although Molly Weasley had helped Gwen learn to appreciate those particular skills, she was still inclined to let Lottie do what Gwen wouldn't.

"I've not baked in a long time," Gwen answered, "It's homemade though."

"Is it poisoned?"

Gwen laughed, unsurprised. In a Christmas party attended by spies and assassins, it was no wonder poisoning was a legitimate concern. "Gods, no. Lottie would sooner iron her own hands then tamper with the dessert."

They reached the porch then, Clint knocked soundly, and they were greeted shortly thereafter by Agent Coulson. He smiled upon sight of them both, gestured them inside, and locked the door behind the pair.

"Merry Christmas," Gwen greeted, "I brought some dessert."

Coulson accepted the tins offered to him, and led the way into the kitchen. Clint set the pudding down on the island there, retreated into the living room, and left Coulson and Gwen alone.

"How was the drive?" Coulson queried.

"It was tolerable. Also, here you go. Thank you for having me."

Coulson accepted the scotch with a bemused smile, thanked her for the food and the grog, and with the pleasantries observed, Phil made the introductions - Clint Barton, Natasha Romanov, Brock Rumlow, among others - and Gwen settled within the group of spies, assassins and other such SHIELD personnel with a glass of water and an artfully impassive expression.

"You're one of Coulson's strays, are you?" Rumlow enquired, but didn't wait for an answer, "Why'd he adopt you, then? You can't be more than 16."

"You're not a spy, are you?" Gwen returned, unfazed by the man's skepticism. She'd received a lot of it in the past, after all. Disregarding the sheeple, there hadn't been many who'd had faith in the ability of a 15 year old girl against the might of Lord Voldemort.

Gwen had proved them wrong, of course, when she'd fought Voldemort to a standstill on seven separate occasions, when she had single-handedly taken out a fair number of the bastard's inner circle, and of course, when she'd finally killed him within the Great Hall of Hogwarts.

"I'm not," Rumlow confirmed, "I'm part of one of the strike teams."

Gwen nodded her acknowledgement, unsurprised. Coulson had explained that the strike teams were the heavy hitters, sent in when the spies were sent out, tasked for the non-covert ops and such things. The exception was strike team Delta, but Gwen wasn't yet certain of the details _why_ they were so different. NO doubt, she'd learn soon enough.

"What will you be doing in SHIELD?"

"Whatever is necessary," Gwen answered. It seemed to irk him, the lack of direct answers, and Gwen smothered a smile behind her mask. "If you'll excuse me, Agent Rumlow, there are others I'd like to meet properly."

Gwen drifted across the living room, subtly watched by most of the SHIELD operatives there. Melinda May, with her oriental features and shrewd, calculating stare, Sharon Carter, with her disarming smile, and of course, Barton and Romanov themselves.

She'd met Barton - _Clint_ \- earlier, though she'd not realised it at the time. He wore a smile now, light and easy going, his posture deceptively unguarded. Likely, he was braced for anything, but Gwen took comfort in the lack of blatant hostility.

Romanov, in contrast, was openly guarded, her gaze wary and her posture defensive. A redhead, she was beautiful and dangerous - another fem fatale if Gwen had ever seen one - and as the woman made no move to address Gwen herself, the witch took the initiative. "I'm Gwen Potter. I'm also known as Nightshade."

''Nightshade' was the pseudonym she'd been given when she'd joined the war. It had mostly been used during covert operations, when anonymity was paramount and such things, but she'd acquired something of a reputation within the underbelly of Britain and Europe, and if Barton and Romanov's reactions were anything to go by, her name - and all that went with it - preceded her. If she was being honest with herself, that knowledge was rather gratifying.

"No wonder you were recruited by SHIELD," Barton commented mildly. No more was said on the matter, however, and Gwen relaxed into the idle chit chat as the time passed. Romanov was mostly silent, but Barton, with a bottle of beer in hand, spoke enough for the both of them, and Gwen found she enjoyed speaking with him.

With the exception of Will, when was the last time that had happened?

Gwen couldn't recall.

"Do you have a specific preference in regards to weaponry?" Barton queried.

"It depends on the operation," Gwen replied, "I'm proficient with a number of weapons - including guns - but I prefer the Japanese bo, or a set of twin daggers. As I said though, it depends on the mission, the objective, and the enemy."

There was also her magic to consider. She'd reached Master Auror status during her time with the unspeakables, but Gwen had rarely used it during her infiltration missions. In battle, yes, when magical combat had been unavoidable, but otherwise, it had drawn too much attention, and therefore, magic had _always_ been a last resort. her magical combat skills were still as exceptional as ever though - Kingsley had made sure of it - and thus, it was something to take into consideration in future.

That, however, could wait for another day. It was Christmas, after all.

 **Author's Note:** The Australian government passed a piracy bill through the senate in the last couple of days. It implies that the Australian Federal Police (AFP) will block only the websites that facilitate 'illegal sharing', - national and otherwise - but since it's all rather ambiguous and the AFP doesn't have a clue of what they're doing anyway, I'm just posting updates in case I lose access to this site.

Anyway, thanks for reading. Hope you've enjoyed. Leave a review? Until next time, -t.


	6. Part I: Chapter Five

**Code Of Conduct**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter or Avengers. All recognisable characters, content or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: Living With Ghosts**

" _Life is about choices. Some we regret, some we're proud of. Some will haunt us forever." - Graham Brown._

 **Chapter Five: Training**

 _10th - 17th January, 2005_

As part of her training with the Unspeakables, Gwen had become a third degree black belt in Karate, Judo, and Tae Kwon Do. It couldn't have been possible if they'd not planted the theoretical knowledge into her longterm memory, nor without the extensive use of a specialised time turner, but as Gwen sparred with Melinda May across the obligatory training mat, as she - subconsciously - registered the growing crowd of onlookers, and as she consciously took stock of her own body's growing fatigue, Gwen found her drive to win waning.

It was a weakness Agent May took distinct advantage of, and shortly thereafter, Gwen found herself on the mats, winded, and pinned down by the older woman. She yielded with a weary sigh, May released her, and Gwen hunched over, the better to catch her breath.

"That was good," May commended. She somehow looked barely breathless, but like Gwen, she was damp with sweat, and her hair had begun to escape from her braid. All the same, she was as composed as ever, and Gwen envied her that. "I'm certain you can do better, however."

The witch nodded curtly. During the war, she _had_ been better, stronger, faster, with a heightened sense of spacial awareness and an uncanny ability to determine an opponent's physical weaknesses, but apparently she'd let herself go more than she'd thought, and they were all things she'd have to hone once again. That was the point of the six week training program, however, and at the very least, she wasn't alone in her misery.

It was a refresher program specifically designed for former soldiers, who'd seen death and destruction and the abject brutality of war. There were former police officers too, EMT's, firefighters, anyone who wasn't 'green' - as it were - and despite her relative youth, Gwen found that she had fit right in. After the initial skepticism of her skills and history had passed, that was.

It was, ironically, refreshing, and between the new acquaintances she'd made, and the plainly exhaustive training days, she'd not had a nightmare since the program had begun. She was still perpetually tensed for confrontation, and haunted by the ghosts of her past to boot, but it had been a long time since she'd had a full night of natural sleep.

It was refreshing.

"Hit the showers," May instructed, "You're done for the week."

Gwen acquiesced without protest, and after a brief stint in the women's change room, she retreated to her small dormitory. She, blessedly, had her own, but given that it was Friday evening, SHIELD trainees were 'permitted' to spend the weekend elsewhere. Gwen herself had every intention to head home, to order pizza and veg out on her couch to watch cheesy romantic comedies until she passed out, but the presence of Barton and Romanov in her SHIELd assigned room put a halt to that idea.

"Heard you've been kicking ass in the program," Barton observed, stretched languidly across Gwen's bed. In contrast, Romanov was seated stiffly in the solitary chair provided, apparently uncomfortable.

"What can I say? I always kick ass. Except when it's May's, anyway." She packed herself a bag of essentials, brushed her hair into a ponytail, and contemplated her trainers. They were worn out, and crusted with mud from the obstacle course the day before, but Gwen knew she'd regret it if she begged off a weekend of exercise. With that in mind, she (begrudgingly) began to clean them off.

"We saw that," he acknowledged, "You held your own pretty well. Up until the end, anyway."

"52 minutes," she answered, "Any longer, and my arms would have revolted."

Barton conceded the point with a nod, sat up properly, and cupped his hands behind his head. It emphasised the muscles of his upper arms and shoulders, and Gwen was tempted to stop and stare, and maybe worship them too. She found herself viscerally attracted to the man, insufferable wit and all, and although she barely knew him, she wasn't about to kid herself: if she could, she'd happily jump Clint Barton's bones.

"Nat and I were headed out to grab some dinner. Were you interested in joining us?"

Gwen shrugged, and glanced at the standoffish redhead who'd still not said a word. She tilted an eyebrow in question, Natasha nodded minutely, and Gwen acquiesced with a smile, and a nod of her own.

"That sounds good.".

They wound up at one of those cheap Indian chain restaurants, squeezed around a table for two and feasting on saffron rice, butter chicken and garlic naan. Natasha ate with starling enthusiasm, Clint wasn't much better, and truth be told, neither was she. She'd burned off a lot of calories that day, more than she probably had to spare, and thus, she'd been famished.

The trio stole snatches of conversation between mouthfuls, however, and Gwen learned that they'd just come off a mission, that it was customary of them to indulge in a post-op binge, and Gwen was rather moved that they'd chosen to include her in their little ritual. She'd not joined their team yet - not officially, anyway - but apparently, they were very prepared to welcome her with open arms.

The revelation was startling. In her experience, established teams were _always_ reluctant to work with others. There had been the occasional blend of teams during the war, making use of individual skills and availability, but they'd always begun with hostilities, and ended with nothing more than begrudging civility. This was a change, to say the least.

"We've worked with other people before," Clint reasoned, upon Gwen's baffled expression, "Not on such a permanent basis, mind you, but enough not to be wary of new additions. Besides, we've read your file. Neither of us doubt you'd be an asset to the team."

She frowned quizzically, suitably distracted. "What does it say?"

"Oh, you know, Dark Lord slayer, witch, terrifyingly competent assassin - the usual."

Seated adjacent to both of them, Natasha rolled her eyes, flicked Clint on the forehead, and returned to her meal without a word. Clint grimaced, rubbed at the offended spot with a frown, and glanced at Gwen, mildly more sober.

"It lists your combat history, your known skills,, and it also has a number of recommendation letters. There were a lot of people who thought you'd do well in SHIELD, and a fair number who thought you _needed_ to join up."

Gwen nodded thoughtfully, and ate the rest of her meal in contemplative silence. She'd not realised how many people had been involved in her recruitment by SHIELD, and she was uncertain of what to think regarding the matter. On one hand, it was flattering to think so many people thought her capable of the job, and yet more whom thought SHIELD would do her well. In the same vein, however, she felt something like a marionette, and it was a sensation she thought she would never have to deal with again.

Afterwards, when their dishes were cleared away and their bellies full, the trio began to bicker over the bill. Gwen was insistent she pay (at least) her share, Clint was insistent it was Natasha's turn to cover his portion, Natasha was insistent he 'pay his own damn portion', and in the end, Gwen just paid for all of them before the other two realised it, accepted the receipt, and watched, bemused, as the pair went halves on the tip.

"Was I just hustled?" She pondered.

"Absolutely," Clint deadpanned, but added, "In all seriousness, though, thanks for paying for dinner. You didn't have to. Natasha would have eventually gotten annoyed and just paid for both of us to shut me up."

Gwen, uncertain of whether or not she should laugh, nodded, and approached the car. Behind her, Natasha was promising retribution - in Arabic - and Clint, in turn, wore a devil-may-care grin, unfazed.

"Where are we taking you?" Clint queried, settled comfortably in the driver's seat.

Gwen frowned and considered her options. Her car was at the SHIELD training academy, back in Quantico, and they were currently in DC - a credit to Barton's lunatic driving skills, to be sure - and she didn't really want to drive back to Quantico, only to make another drive back to DC.

"Would you mind dropping me home? I live in Georgetown - I believe it's not far from here?"

It seemed she'd have to take a train in on Sunday evening. The other alternative, of course, was apparation, but Gwen harboured a general loathing for any magical transport that wasn't flight, so she'd made a habit of avoiding such means of transport whenever possible. It had made for some embarrassing conversations in years passed, but Gwen wasn't about to put up with her own discomfort for the sake of others. Not again.

"I don't mind at all. It's not far from here," Clint confirmed, and their drive passed in companionable silence. The Red Hot Chilli Peppers' filtered from Clint's speakers, Gwen hummed along beneath her breath, but within a few minutes, Clint had pulled up in the driveway the witch had directed him to, and for a time, the trio sat in silence.

"Nice digs," Clint eventually complimented.

"Inherited from my grandmother," Gwen replied, "Did you two want to come in?"

They respectfully declined, Gwen offered them the usual pleasantries, retreated from the car, and approached the porch with a weary sigh. She ducked inside, Clint pulled out of the driveway, and Gwen smiled to herself, content.

All things considered, she'd had an enjoyable day.

As Week 1 had been primarily focused on hand-to-hand combat, Week 2 was focused on espionage. They'd spend two hours every morning in the gym, sparring and working out and what have you, but for those trainees who would eventually become spies and assassins, the rest of their day, from eight in the morning to five in the evening, would be acquiring (or remembering) the tricks to covert infiltration, among other things. In the weeks that followed, it would take up the 8 - 10 am slots in their days, but in the meantime, Gwen chose to focus on Week 2 alone.

Interestingly enough, the only other trainees in this particular group were the former 'Black Op' soldiers, and because of it, the six 'students' flew through the first session - and the sessions that followed. They, like Gwen, were already accustomed to the cloak and dagger business, and although not to the same extent as the witch, or really in the same sort of field, the five others learned fast, and weren't ashamed to ask questions.

Then again, Gwen supposed, it could save their lives one day, and they all knew it.

"How do you think you're going?" Agent May enquired. It was Friday evening, Gwen had just successfully 'assassinated' one of her fellow trainees, and her spacial awareness had returned in leaps and bounds. She'd gotten better at sparring, too, quicker and faster than she had been at the start of the program, but she still had a lot of room for improvement, and she said as much.

"In one of your recommendation letters, a man by the name of Alastor Moody said you were almost preternaturally fast. I don't see that, Cadet Potter."

Gwen firmed her resolve, her back straightened, and she met Agent May's gaze with determination in her own. "You will."

Agent May smiled, not particularly kindly - simply in acknowledgement of Gwen's words. "I look forward to it."

The woman, Gwen had observed, was consummately professional, though the nineteen year old didn't mind. Over the years, she'd learned to appreciate such individuals, and Melinda May was no exception. This woman would ensure Gwen became the best operative she could; not because she was Gwen Potter, but because she was a prospective SHIELD agent, and SHIELD expected the best from its operatives. Gwen had no desire to disappoint.

 **Author's Note:** This is my last complete chapter. Six is in the works, but it'll be a busy weekend. Hope you enjoyed. Until next time, -t.


	7. Part I: Chapter Six

**Code Of Conduct**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter or Avengers. All recognisable characters, content or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: Living With Ghosts**

" _Life is about choices. Some we regret, some we're proud of. Some will haunt us forever." - Graham Brown._

 _ **Chapter Six: Valentine**_

 _ **14th February, 2005**_

In the following four weeks, time flew. Gwen spent most of her time in the training academy, or passed out from exhaustion, or gorging herself on an exorbitant amount of calories to make up for those that she'd burned off.

In contrast, Clint and Natasha spent their time on back to back missions that, although not particularly strenuous, were time-consuming, and far away besides. Gwen had therefore not seen much of them, but Clint had made it a habit to send her a string of text messages and emails, full of song lyrics, mindless babble, and the occasional in-depth, insightful rebuttal for a thread of debates Gwen had quickly grown weary of. He'd become a friend though, and without many of those in the US, she'd come to appreciate him more than she probably should have.

Brought from her thoughts as Agent May entered the mess hall, Gwen uncapped her water bottle, sipped it slowly, and watched as her fellow trainees collected themselves. May herself observed them through shrewd, perceptive eyes, and once the woman was satisfied with what she saw, she began to speak. Her voice carried across the hall, the cadets themselves were silent, and Gwen listened, attention solely on her primary instructor.

Next week, you will each endure a week of psychological and physical evaluations. They are designed to test your mental, emotional, and physical endurance, and they will be some of the hardest tests you will ever experience. In SHIELD, there is no room for failure. If you do not succeed, we here at SHIELD expect you to try again, and again, and again until you do. If you feel this is not a place for you, you'd best let me know now."

There was a moment of expectant silence, a crowd of resolute faces, and Agent May, expression neutral, but undeniably pleased all the same. She continued her speech.

"The evaluations will span the course of a week, and you'll each be provided a time and place to meet an assigned senior agent. They will be tasked with evaluating your progress, and to determine if you have passed or failed.

"For some of you, this will mean another course in SHIELD's training academy. For others, it will be probationary field duty. Whatever the case, I hope each of you go away from this program having learned something, and I wish you all the best in the future. You are dismissed."

Gwen gathered up her things, and approached Agent May as the trainees retreated from the hall. The oriental woman acknowledged Gwen with a tilt of her head, and the 19 year old gave May an irreverent grin.

"How was that last spar, Agent May?"

The woman pursed her lips, and Gwen was uncertain if she'd just tried to smother a smile, or a frown. Whatever the case, the woman nodded her concession. She'd more or less challenged Gwen to get faster in regards to sparring and hand to hand combat in general, and Gwen had succeeded. In fact, she was fairly certain she'd surpassed herself, but there was no real way of testing that, and she had no real desire to, anyway.

"You impressed me," May relented, her tone begrudging, "Now get out of here, enjoy your weekend, and I'll see you next week."

"You will?"

May nodded. "The psychological component of the evaluations will be performed by professional psychologists, of course, but I'll be your evaluator for everything else."

"No pressure," Gwen quipped, "But I guess I'll see you next week, then."

She left the mess hall, and approached the resident's wing with a weary sigh. It had been a long day, and an even longer six weeks, but with the end in sight, time had never seemed slower. She was looking forward to another weekend off, watching re-runs of Dawson's Creek and the OC before the surely hellish week ahead, but as she approached her assigned room, Gwen knew, beyond reasonable doubt, that she'd have to postpone her weekend plans for another night.

"Barton, what's your deal with breaking and entering?" Gwen groused. The archer, once again, was sprawled out across her bed, dressed once more in a pair of low slung jeans and a sleeveless muscle shirt. He wore a pair of combat boots on his feet and a leather cuff on his wrist, and upon sight of her, he smiled lazily, unfazed.

"It's part of the job description, didn't you know?"

"You're incorrigible," she sighed, retrieved a change of clothes, and approached the shower. "Where are you taking me tonight, and where is Romanov?"

"Out to dinner, and she's got a solo assignment in Vienna."

Gwen shuffled into her attached bathroom, and prepared for her night out. As she did, she reflected upon the friendship she'd formed with Barton and Romanov, a small smile on her face. She no longer felt so alone in the United States, and although she couldn't fully trust them as she'd trusted Hermione, Ginny, and Luna, Gwen knew from experience that such bonds would only come with time and trial by fire.

It hadn't been easy, properly befriending the unlikely duo. They were each jaded and scarred, traumatised by their respective pasts and guarded to the teeth, but time, exposure, and Barton's shear determination had won out, and as she dried her hair, Gwen conceded to herself that it was entirely worth it.

It was wonderful not to feel so alone.

With an internal shake of her head, Gwen pulled herself from her reverie, pulled her hair into a haphazard topknot, and retreated from her bathroom. Clint had settled himself at the edge of her bed, but upon sight of her, he raised himself to his feet, and approached the door. His gaze, however, roved her form appreciatively, and Gwen didn't miss it.

"Like what you see, Barton?"

Shamelessly, with that same lazy smile on his face, he replied, "Very much."

Gwen grinned, chuckling to herself, and followed the man out of her room. She locked the door and engaged the electronic pass code, walked alongside him towards the garage, and the pair chatted idly as they went. He told her about his day, elbows deep in paperwork and pestering Agent Coulson, and Gwen explained what May had informed her earlier.

"The Psych Evals are a bitch," Barton commented mildly.

Gwen shrugged. "I don't much care, so long as I pass."

They reached Clint's car, she clambered into the passenger's seat, and shuffled through the man's CD's. She settled on Green Day's Greatest Hits while Barton pulled out of the parking lot, and she hummed along as the archer drove. The silence between them was companionable, and before long, Clint pulled up in front of a restaurant called 'Pearl'.

"This place has the _best_ milkshakes," he said, dropped out of the car, and met Gwen at the curb, "And it's just occurred to me that today's Valentine's Day."

"No hot date?"

"You don't count?"

Gwen chuckled, brushed some hair out of her eyes, and grinned as Clint held the door open for her. "You're a flatterer, Barton."

"I try," he acknowledged, approached the hostess, and Gwen followed closely behind him, her gaze on the restaurant.

It was rather indy-chic, with black and white photography on the walls, an eclectic mishmash of coloured tablecloths, and strangely shaped candle centrepieces at each table. Imogen Heap filtered from the speakers, the wait staff wore shirts with slogans like 'Save the Trees' and 'Save the Whales', and the hostess bragged about vegan options as they approached the pair's table.

It was, perhaps, the last place she'd ever imagined Clint Barton would appreciate. He was firmly a burger and fries kind of fellow, with a controlled fondness for Jack Daniels and classic cars, but apparently, milkshakes overrode all of that.

"What about you?" Clint queried, "No man in your life?"

Gwen shook her head, no, and her thoughts briefly travelled to the past. Her last partner had been before the war had really begun; a whirlwind romance with Draco Malfoy. it had been very much Shakespeareian, obligatory tragic ending and all, but Gwen never really dwelt on those days. It had hurt too much in the beginning, but then life - and the war - had taken it's toll, and Draco Malfoy had simply become another memory, tinged with the ache of loss and the regret for what could have been.

Ever since, her romantic encounters had been the clandestine, fleeting kind, with her comrades and allies, and later random strangers she'd met on her travels. It had been a while since her last roll in the hay, however, but these days, Gwen neither had the time - or the inclination - to change that.

"I don't really date these days," she admitted, "I don't think I can even be bothered to."

"It takes a lot of effort," Clint acknowledged. Their conversation was interrupted by the waiter, Gwen ordered the first chicken dish she found, and when the man was gone, Clint continued. "Sometimes though, I miss that kind of companionship."

Gwen nodded her agreement. "It's a shit line of work."

"If not us though, then whom?"

"Precisely," she replied, a bleak smile on her face.

Beneath the table, Clint nudged her leg with one of his, his own expression understanding. The smile didn't reach his eyes, and the grief Gwen saw there, perhaps for what he'd done, or was yet to do, or what he'd given up, made her ache for him. Blessedly, however, they spoke no further on the subject and instead, Clint kept her occupied with film and television impressions, and Gwen returned the favour with comical anecdotes from her years in school.

Due to her role in the war, she had not returned after her O.W.L exams, but five years had provided a lot of stories, and Gwen looked back on those days fondly. The weeks, months and years that had followed had been devastating in more ways than one, and those early years were like a beacon of lightness in a life veiled by shadows. It still hurt, most days, to remember all that she'd lost, but Gwen had learned a long time ago that no matter what life had to throw at her, no matter what hurdles had to be climbed and what ghosts haunted her, the world would continue turning, and life would go on.

All she would need was time.

"Your friends sound like a riot," Clint told her, chuckling to himself, "Do you miss them?"

"Every day," Gwen replied, wistful, but Clint didn't pursue the matter further. He probably assumed, rightfully, that she'd lost a fair number of them in the war, and those skeletons were hard to forget. She checked the time - it was late - and sighed to herself. It had been a lovely night, grim conversations and all, and it was a pleasant end to another gruelling week.

Gwen didn't want it to end.

Clint gave her a grin full of childish excitement. It was contagious. "Want a milkshake?"

Gwen shrugged, momentarily heedless. She felt like a little girl again, without a care in the world. "Why not?"

 **Author's Note:** This chapter was initially supposed to be focused on the evaluations, but Valentine's Day ran away with me. Hope you enjoyed. Until next time, -t.


	8. Part I: Chapter Seven

**Code Of Conduct**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter or Avengers. All recognisable characters, content or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: Living With Ghosts**

" _Life is about choices. Some we regret, some we're proud of. Some will haunt us forever." - Graham Brown._

 **Chapter Seven: Evaluations**

 _17th - 18th February, 2005_

The SHIELD appointed psychologist was a nondescript man in his late forties, with a perceptive stare and an unassuming demeanour. Gwen wondered, idly, if the man had any combat training, but as he asked her questions, and as Gwen replied, she acknowledged that it wasn't at all relevant and thus, she didn't dwell on it.

"Have you ever experienced flashbacks of your time during the war?"

"Not since I left the magical community," Gwen answered, hands clasped in her lap.

They'd been rather severe at first, when every raised voice was a scream of agony, when every black cloak was a Death Eater, when every flash of green was her impending doom. She'd been tense and agitated, and her departure from magical Britain had become her saving grace. There were very few black cloaks in the muggle world, no spells to speak of, and the ghosts in her head could only ever haunt her in her dreams.

"How about nightmares?"

She smiled bleakly. "Frequently."

The questions persisted, focused primarily around her PTSD symptoms, and Gwen left the office, mildly haggard. It had been draining in a way Gwen hadn't been prepared for, and although she was uncertain of the shrink's impending evaluation of Gwen's current mindset, rather than dwell on it, she instead chose to focus on the trials ahead.

"Cadet Potter."

"Agent May," Gwen acknowledged. She rose from her stretches, approached the older woman with bare feet, and queried, "You mentioned in your email that I'd be sparring someone else today?"

"Yes," Agent May confirmed, "Agent Barton has volunteered his services for the afternoon. It is, of course, to determine your capabilities against someone larger and heavier than you. Your task is to subdue him."

Clint arrived a few minutes later, dressed in his customary muscle shirt, though he'd switched out his jeans for a pair of worn out sweats. He'd appeared vaguely irritated as he'd arrived, but upon sight of Gwen, he smirked, lazy and confident, and Gwen returned the expression with a grin.

"You ready?" Clint queried. May had stepped off the mat, clipboard in hand, Clint had kicked off his combat boots and joined her, and Gwen nodded, determined.

"Bring it."

Gwen had known, abstractly, that Clint was a talented fighter. From the occasional comments from Romanov and Coulson, Gwen had determined that he was one of the best SHIELD had to offer, up there with Agents May and Romanov. Unlike them, however, Clint was all chorded muscle, at least 60 pounds heavier than her, and a complete unknown.

As such, she had expected a difficult spar.

What she'd _not_ expected, however, was the extent of Clint's agility. He was fast, nearly as fast as Gwen herself, and just as flexible. It was as startling as it was exhilarating, and Gwen found herself pushed to the limits of her skill set, her limbs straining, her focus narrowed to their spar, to Barton, until it was just the two of them in an empty room, with her heart pounding in her ears and with a rush of adrenaline coursing through her veins.

Gwen grit her teeth, mustered up what reserves of strength she still possessed, and swept Clint's feet from beneath him. She didn't wait for him to fall though, and instead, she withdrew her wand, bound him in place, and glanced at May, expectant.

"Well done," May commended, "You can release him now."

Gwen acquiesced, gave Clint a breathless grin, and helped him to his feet. "Not a bad round, Hawkeye."

He nodded his agreement, approached the benches, and helped himself to her water. She frowned at the sight, but May cleared her throat before Gwen could protest.

"Tomorrow morning, you'll have your armed combat evaluations. That includes your firearms qualifications, and I expect to see you at the shooting range promptly at eight."

Gwen nodded, suppressed the urge to salute, and approached her gear. She shoved Clint as she did so, donned her ugg boots, and shouldered her backpack before she addressed her friend.

"Late lunch?"

"Sounds good."

—

Gwen wasn't fond of guns. She'd learned as a necessity before the war, but on the occasions during which she'd used one - mostly while she'd been absorbed into the underbelly of muggle London - it had always been treated as a last resort, when magic was out of the question, and when everything else was too. She'd killed a lot of people during the war, but she'd killed only one with a gun, and it had felt as though the taint of gun powder residue and blood would never wash out of her skin.

Despite her aversion to firearms, Gwen passed her qualifications without incident. She wasn't an expert marksmen, but she was a consistent shot, and given that she'd be in the same strike team as Clint Barton, Gwen doubted that anyone would complain.

Especially after her armed combat evaluations.

"You mentioned you're competent with a number of weapons?"

"Yes," Gwen confirmed, "Though I _do_ have a preference for the bo staff."

During the war, Gwen had saved Garrick Olivander's life. In exchange, he had created a focusing staff for her, made in extreme likeness to the bo staff she'd become somewhat notorious for. That focusing staff had only been used twice, but when it had, the effects had been devastating. These days, it was hidden within the catacombs of _Ysgarlad_ \- Potter Manor - and that was where it would stay.

To be honest, Gwen was afraid of the power it could wield, and she was also afraid of that kind of power in her grasp. Throughout history, witches and wizards had been corrupted by the magic they wielded, and Gwen didn't want to become another in a long list of individuals remembered in infamy.

That didn't mean she was afraid of bo staves in general, however. During her travels, she'd acquired an authentic one in Japan, crafted out of bamboo and warded to the teeth by Japanese magicals. Gwen doubted she'd ever use it in combat, however.

"And you'll be able to use one in the field, if you please. A SHIELD designed one, in any case. This particular evaluation is to determine your skills with your weapon of choice. Are you ready?"

Gwen nodded. She wasn't particularly sure _why_ this evaluation was necessary, but she wasn't really inclined to question Agent May about it, either. Instead, she took hold of the bo staff she'd brought along with her, gave a nod to her instructor turned evaluator, and proceeded to wipe the floor with her opponent.

"Who was your instructor?" Agent May queried. She appeared impressed.

"I never learned his real name," Gwen answered, "I was always just told to call him 'Master Lu.' He died in 2001."

"A shame," May acknowledged, "He is survived by you, at least."

The older woman dismissed Gwen for the afternoon, and the witch retreated towards her room in a daze. Agent May's words had resonated with her, had touched something deep inside her heart, and they couldn't get out of her head.

 _He is survived by you_.

Gwen had heard a derivative of the expression many times. Allies lost, comrades fallen, perpetually survived by sons, daughters, wives, brothers, sisters, lovers and friends. Somehow, though, it meant something entirely different when Agent May had said it. Gwen just didn't know why.

 **Author's Note:** A shorter chapter this time, but I didn't want to drag it out. In other news, I likely won't be blocked from this site. The piracy bill only concerns illegal downloads and sites that facilitate them. Hope you enjoyed. Thanks for reading. Leave a review? Until next time, -t.


	9. Part I: Chapter Eight

**Code Of Conduct**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter or Avengers. All recognisable characters, content or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: Living With Ghosts**

" _Life is about choices. Some we regret, some we're proud of. Some will haunt us forever." - Graham Brown._

 **Chapter Eight: Curiosity**

 _21st February, 2005_

Gwen wasn't surprised when she passed her evaluations. It was arrogant of her, maybe, but she'd been trained by the best the Department of Mysteries had had to offer, and that had come with no small degree of confidence, and the skills to back it up. In all actuality, her only concerns had been the psychological component of her evaluations, but according to Agent May, if SHIELD took every agent suffering from PTSD off of field duty, they'd have _no_ available field operatives to speak of and thus, it was a non-issue.

"You're now a probie, probie."

"Did you get that off NCIS, Barton?" Gwen answered, tone droll.

"Probably," Barton replied, nonchalant, "I'm your CO now, did you know? Coulson's our handler, naturally."

Turned away from him, Gwen didn't bother hiding her grimace. She'd never appreciated other people's authority, and the role of 'subordinate' would never suit her. She had found it far too confining and restrictive, and Gwen doubted that she'd changed so much in two years.

In the early days of the war, she'd been considered rebellious and disrespectful, among other things, but Kingsley had offered Gwen the opportunity to prove herself, and Gwen had run with it. It would suck to be a subordinate again, and Gwen could only hope she still had a friend at the end of things..

"What does Romanov think of that?"

Clint shrugged nonchalantly, leant against the wall as Gwen packed her things, and replied, "Who knows? I've never known Natasha to wear her heart on her sleeve."

"How long _have_ you known her?" Gwen queried. She tugged her riotous hair into a haphazard knot on top of her head, donned her ugg boots, and zipped up her bag. "You two seem close."

"It'll be three years now, I suppose," Clint mused, "She was one of my hits - I was supposed to take her out. I brought her in instead."

"And you've had each other's backs ever since," Gwen concluded.

Upon reflection, it would be difficult to insert herself into a partnership already so cohesive, but it helped that both Barton and Romanov were willing to have her, and moreover, that they had both become friends in the time she'd known them. Of course, Gwen was far closer with Clint than she was with the perpetually distant Natasha Romanov, but it was better than nothing, and in the end, beggars couldn't be choosers.

"Pretty much," Clint confirmed. "It should be interesting to have you on the team."

Gwen hummed her acknowledgement, though the expression was half-hearted at best. "I suppose so."

After she refused an offer for Clint to carry it, Gwen shouldered the strap of her duffel bag, checked to make sure she'd packed everything, and approached the door. Clint fell into step beside her, Gwen checked out of the training facility, and approached the parking lot. Her car was at her home in Georgetown, but Clint had offered her a lift home, and Gwen was selfish enough to agree with few qualms. The commute from Quantico to Georgetown wasn't fun, and furthermore, Gwen hated the cold. Thus, if she could avoid either, she wasn't about to deny herself..

"Weekend plans?" Clint enquired. He expertly navigated his way through the peak hour traffic and over the wet roads, drummed a finger along to the beat of Third Eye Blind's 'Semi Charmed Life', and waited patiently for Gwen's answer.

"Not really," Gwen replied, "I don't know many people here, I'm not 21, and I don't want to deal with the jet lag if I were to, for whatever ridiculous reason, return to Britain. I think I'll just celebrate my graduation - or should I call it a promotion? - with some Chunky Monkey and a 'Friends' marathon."

"Call it whatever you want," Clint answered flippantly, "And your life is exceedingly dull. We're stopping for dinner, by the way. Does Chinese sound good?"

Gwen huffed a small laugh, glanced out her passenger side window,and shrugged her acquiescence. They settled into a companionable silence, Gwen's mind wandered, and it wasn't until Clint pulled into a Chinese restaurant near her house that Gwen shook herself from her thoughts, oddly weary. It had been a long and busy two months.

"Are you alright?"

"Fine," she replied, followed Clint into the brightly lit restaurant, and requested, "Do you mind if we get takeout?"

Clint shrugged indifferently, ordered enough food to feed a small army, and settled back to await it's preparation. Gwen slumped against the wall beside him, closed her eyes to the fluorescent lighting, and drifted off again. The time ticked by slowly, accompanied by the din of kitchen staff and the restaurant's restless clientele.

"What do I have to look forward to next week, Clint?"

"We'll have you fitted with everything you need," Barton replied vaguely, "Have all of your administrative bits and pieces filed, get you settled in the bullpen, other such odds and ends."

"Sounds dull," Gwen remarked.

Barton shrugged indifferently, stepped forward when his number was called, and accepted the two bags of food with a nod for the harassed worker. He fell into step beside Gwen as she approached the door, gave her a smile when she held it open for him, and settled them at her feet inside the car. Then he got in on the driver's side, ignited the engine, and again, they made the remainder of their drive in an easy, companionable silence.

"Where's Natasha tonight?" Gwen queried, approaching her front door. Clint followed behind with the bags of Chinese in hand, his footsteps almost silent in the nighttime.

"She and Rumlow have plans," he answered, and his tone was implication enough. Gwen asked no further questions and instead, led him into her kitchen, helped him spread the food containers across the kitchen island, and offered him a bowl, his choice of chopsticks or a fork, and a can of Sprite.

They settled across from each other at the island, ate to the lilting sounds of Nora Jones from her living room speakers, and across from her, Clint made no secret of his curiosity. He'd never been inside her house before - had never had any reason to - and the decor seemed to surprise him.

"You're place doesn't seem particularly magical."

"I don't live magically," Gwen shrugged, "I was raised muggle - it's what I know - and honestly, the magical world…" Gwen hesitated, studied her fried rice, and admitted in a whisper, "I hate it sometimes."

There were other times she didn't, when she couldn't imagine her life without magic in it, but Gwen had chosen to leave that world behind, had wholly embraced modern technology, and it was a decision she still couldn't bring herself to regret..

Clint's expression was open, curious but not expectant, and Gwen shrugged, a mirthless smile on her face. She didn't pursue the topic any further, however, and Clint was courteous enough not to pry.

Instead, he spoke of some of his misadventures as an adolescent in the circus, and Gwen listened to the stories raptly. Apparently, He'd been something of a hell raiser, but he'd been good at what he'd done - archery, the trapeze, acrobatics and the tightrope - and thus, he'd not been kicked to the curb.

"Why did you leave?" Gwen queried. "You sounded happy there."

"I was," Clint agreed, but his reminiscent smile turned bitter, his gaze empty, "Until my own brother tried to kill me. After that, I left, enlisted for the army, and never looked back."

There was a story there, Gwen surmised, and she wondered about it. Returning the favour, however, Gwen didn't pry. She knew as well as anyone that some wounds weren't worth reopening, and she didn't have the right, anyway.

"I'm sorry - about your brother."

Clint shrugged. "It wasn't your fault."

"Can I ask what happened to him?"

"I couldn't tell you," Clint answered, shrugging, "He disappeared off the face of the earth, and I haven't heard about or seen him since. Word on the street is he's up to his usual tricks, but he's not on SHIELD's radar - yet."

"Yet?"

"It's just a matter of time before he gets in over his head," Clint confirmed, "Attempted murder and over a decade of estrangement notwithstanding, I _do_ know my brother."

Gwen nodded her understanding, circled the rim of her Sprite can with a finger, and failed to think of something to say. Instead, she said nothing at all, gave Clint a sad smile, and let Nora Jones fill the silence. As she did, Clint met her gaze, and there was a softness in his eyes that Gwen couldn't decipher. It made her nervous though, or perhaps just uncomfortable, and with her heart hammering inside her chest, Gwen looked away. She regretted it immediately.

Clint cleared his throat. "I should go. It's getting late, and you look tired."

Gwen nodded her acquiescence, and walked Clint to the door. She crossed her arms over her chest to ward off the cold, and offered Clint an awkward smile. "Have a good weekend, Hawkeye. I'll see you on Monday."

"Bright and early," he agreed, offered Gwen a lazy salute, and retreated to his car. She watched him go until his headlights were out of sight, locked up, and retreated into the warmth of her bedroom.

As she did, she palmed her face with both hands, groaned to herself, and wondered when she'd gotten so blatantly awkward. Clint was attractive, certainly, and gods knew she'd happily fool around with him if given the opportunity, but she hadn't been the fumbling, stammering type since her 16th year, and she was irked that she was _that_ girl once again.

Regardless, it was probably for the best she'd interrupted whatever _moment_ that had just passed. With Clint's new role as her CO, and Gwen still haunted by her past, it was a complication neither of them needed.

Then again, maybe she was looking too much into things, and perhaps Clint wasn't interested in her at all. It was entirely possible that she'd misread the signs, and the thought left her unreasonably disappointed.

She huffed, flopped gracelessly along her bed, and employed her occluamency to push the thoughts out of her mind. She fell asleep before she could finish, and in her dreams, she remembered.

It was nothing new, of course, because no matter how far she ran, Gwen could never forget. She wouldn't let herself.

 **Author's Note:** I dislike angst, so I'm not fond of this chapter. I rewrote those last few paragraphs multiple times, however, and yet the angst remained. It's rather circular, Gwen's reasoning, but I suppose feelings have never been particularly logical. I hope you enjoyed. Thanks for your support. Until next time, -t.


	10. Part I: Chapter Nine

**Code Of Conduct**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter or Avengers. All recognisable characters, content or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: Living With Ghosts**

" _Life is about choices. Some we regret, some we're proud of. Some will haunt us forever." - Graham Brown._

 **Chapter Nine: Legend**

 _24th February, 2005_

SHIELD's main command centre, the Triskelion, was located on the Potomac River, on Theodore Roosevelt Island. The river itself separated Washington DC from Virginia, but the Triskelion was acknowledged as part of DC, and it was a pain in the backside to access. That was no surprise, mind you, and it was honestly no wonder the place was locked up like a nun's knickers, but buy the time she had met Clint and Natasha in the front foyer, Gwen was irritated.

"How many bloody checkpoints do there need to be?" She groused, tugging her backpack over her shoulder, "Merlin's balls, that's half an hour of my life I'll never get back."

"You have two more checkpoints to go," Natasha informed her. Beside the Black Widow, Clint made no attempt to smother his laughter. "After we get your SHIELD badge, you won't have to put up with them again."

"Good," Gwen bared her teeth in an approximation of a grin, "Because if someone tries to take my knives again, I won't be pleased."

"I can relate," Natasha acknowledged lightly, and the two shared a glance.

It should have been concerning, their shared appreciation for knives, but Gwen had spent her adolescence fighting for her life, and Natasha had spent hers being groomed into the Red Room's perfect assassin, so it wasn't really a surprise at all. In any case, Gwen wasn't about to dwell on it, and she doubted Natasha would, either.

"We're going to have to rush you through everything," Clint informed her, "Coulson's requested a meeting with us at ten hundred hours."

"Why?"

"Probably a new mission," Natasha answered mildly, apparently unfazed. Gwen wished she could say the same for herself.

"It's my first day…"

Clint gave her a lazy grin. "We're confident in your abilities, _Nightshade_. Don't start doubting _yourself_ now."

Gwen nodded absently, proceeded through the security checks without complaint, and followed Barton and Romanov to HR. She didn't take the opportunity to memorise the path they were walking, but Gwen _did_ remain aware enough to notice the various individuals who passed them by.

Some gave them a wide berth, intimidated by the infamous Black Widow, or the legendary Hawkeye, or to her surprise, even Gwen herself. Others stared; envious or resentful or amorous or critical, and pulled from her reverie, Gwen's expression turned impassive, her gate shifted, and she was prepared for anything.

"Your reputation precedes you," Natasha observed lightly, " _Nightshade_ has become a legend."

"I thought it was singularly in Britain and Europe," Gwen admitted.

Clint chuckled at the thought. "People whisper your name like you're… I don't even know. You're _definitely_ an inter-continental legend, however. Almost as notorious as the _Black Widow_ , even."

"That's… hard to believe."

Gwen could remember her jaunts through London's underbelly, Glasgow, Cardiff and Edinburgh as well. There had been moments in Paris, too, some in Rome and Tuscany and a variety of other places she'd visited during her travels, but wherever she'd gone, it had all been the same.

The legend of the _Black Widow_ had been told in reverent, fearful whispers, almost fanciful in their telling, but far too surreal to be anything _but_ fact, and Gwen had grown to respect her - the _Black Widow_ \- on myth alone.

That respect had only cemented itself when Gwen had actually _met_ the woman, and Gwen struggled to believe that she, or _Nightshade_ , rather, had acquired a similar sort of notoriety - in four years, no less.

"It's the Internet age," Clint reasoned, "Word travels fast these days."

They reached HR before Gwen could find an answer to that. She acquired her security pass there, among other things, and she left shortly thereafter, paperwork in hand, and employee benefits on her mind. The armoury followed, where Gwen was equipped with a pair of the standard SHIELD issue firearms, the miscellaneous odds and ends accompanying them, and a license to carry them both.

"What's next?" Gwen queried, "Do I get to see this illustrious _office_ I keep hearing things about?"

"Not quite," Clint answered, "We have to make a stop at R&D first. Coulson arranged a surprise for you, believe it or not."

The surprise turned out to be a collapsible bo staff. It was made out of a light weight metal that Gwen quickly forgot the name of, and despite the fact that she had know idea how Coulson had acquired the details, it was also fitted specifically to her height and weight requirements. There were other features too, that she would probably require a manual to understand, but it was field ready, and it was even better than her first.

"It's wicked," Gwen determined, the Welsh inflection to her words unavoidable with her excitement, "I'll have to thank Coulson for this."

"Let's head there now," Clint acknowledged, "It's almost ten, anyway."

Natasha and Gwen acquiesced, and they filled the walk with idle conversation. Gwen marvelled at the Triskelion's architecture, Natasha pointed out landmarks, and Clint offered brief anecdotes regarding people they passed by. Before long, they were inside Agent Coulson's office, and Gwen was mildly surprised to find that the man hadn't changed a bit. It had only been two months since she'd seen him last, but Gwen had learned from experience that two months could change most anyone, but it seemed COulson, at least temporarily, had been untouched by the passage of time.

It was strangely comforting, but Gwen didn't dwell on it. Instead, she thanked him for the surprise, and watched, bemused, as Clint bypassed the usual pleasantries without batting an eye. Natasha and Coulson seemed unfazed, and Gwen determined that it was simply another one of the sharp-eyed archer's quirks. .

"What's going on, Phil?"

"I have a mission for the three of you," Coulson explained, and they each responded accordingly. Clint stood, braced for anything, Natasha tilted her head, expectant, and Gwen mentally catalogued her weapons, uncertain if she had everything she'd need. "A New York based crime syndicate has recently acquired a shipment of Stark tech. Weapons, naturally, specifically designed for the US military."

Stark Industries was the largest weapons manufacturing company across the globe. There was no telling what kind of weapons the army had ordered from SI, and there was also no telling how much damage that kind of fire power could do in the wrong hands.

She grimaced at the thought.

"Your job is to bring down the crime syndicate _without_ compromising the Stark weapons. This is all we know regarding the organisation."

Gwen accepted the manila folder offered to her, flicked through the paperwork quickly, and listened as Clint pried for further details. They'd be headed to New York, they would have to take out at _least_ three crime lords, and they had as long as they needed to get the job done.

"Your jet leaves in an hour." Summarily dismissed, Gwen got to her feet alongside Natasha, and approached the door. As she did, Coulson added, "And Agent Potter?"

Gwen turned. "Yes?"

"Welcome to SHIELD."

Gwen smiled, nodded her acknowledgement, and retreated out of the office with a light chuckle. Clint and Natasha were awaiting her there, Natasha with the file open in front of her, Clint's expression artfully impassive. They said nothing, but they led the way to a small set of living quarters, and they each took turns changing.

"Are you alright?" Clint queried. Natasha was in the bathroom, and Gwen had taken the opportunity to study her copy of their mission details.

"Yeah," Gwen confirmed, "I just didn't think I'd be in the field this quickly, I guess."

Clint didn't glance up from where he was examining his arrows. "The world doesn't wait for anyone, _Nightshade_. All you can do is prepare yourself the best you can."

Gwen nodded her acknowledgement, and retreated into the bathroom as Natasha exited it. She wore a pair of leather pants and a corset of similar material, a pair of boots on her feet and her red hair in a high ponytail.

"All you need is a pair of fishnet gloves and a riding crop, Romanov," Gwen quipped, retreated into the bathroom, and withdrew her usual field gear. Over a simple black tank top, she wore a skintight vest made of basilisk hide. They were accompanied by a pair of durable black trousers that tucked into her customised combat boots, and finally, the outfit was completed with a pair of fingerless leather gloves and a thin black, fully equipped, utility belt.

Gwen pulled her hair into a French braid, exited the bathroom, and occupied herself with organising her weapons. The guns were holstered to her belt, a pair of knives were tucked into her boots, and later, her new staff would be strapped to her back. Otherwise, her utility belt had a small share of liquidised nightshade, a single round of Peruvian Darkness Powder, and a small pouch of throwing stars. Her wand, of course, was not to be disregarded, and nor was the set of twin daggers she had sheathed at the small of her back, beneath her clothes and _always_ a last resort. In all, Gwen was a travelling armoury, and she preferred it that way.

"Are you ready?" Clint queried. His bow and quiver were already strapped to his back, a pair of guns at his belt and a variety of knives concealed by his clothes. He looked expectantly at Natasha, who nodded wordlessly, and then at Gwen, who smiled.

"Always."

 **Author's Note:** Is this chapter alright? I'm not sure. I feel like it is, but at the same time, I feel like it's not. #confused


	11. Part I: Chapter Ten

**Code Of Conduct**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter or Avengers. All recognisable characters, content or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: Living With Ghosts**

" _Life is about choices. Some we regret, some we're proud of. Some will haunt us forever." - Graham Brown._

 **Chapter Ten: ReSolve**

 _24th February, 2005_

With an inaudible sigh, Gwen sat back in her seat, studied the paperwork Agent COulson had provided, and frowned minutely. They had very little to go on regarding their targets, and that reality was discomforting. Moreover, it meant they'd each have to acquire a fair deal of information before they could strike, and none of the three were particularly pleased.

Interestingly enough, it was Clint whom appeared the most perturbed. He'd worn the same frown since he had skimmed the file, his gaze faraway from the quinjet, but Gwen knew better than to pry, and Natasha did too. Regardless, Gwen was left oddly flat-footed; unused to the stoic, focused stranger Clint had suddenly become, but certain now was no time to dwell on it.

"I'm unsure of your usual MO on strikes like these," Gwen began, "I feel I should ask: what's the game plan when we land?"

"We have very little information to go on," Natasha answered, "Our first job will be to acquire some more intel…"

On the other side of the plane, Clint shook his head, no. "That won't be necessary. I know _exactly_ where they'll be. We'll scope the place out and strike at nightfall."

Gwen frowned, perplexed, and studied the file once again. It offered only code names, what SHIELD knew of their criminal background, and a tentative guess regarding where the SI shipment was taken. "How the hell did you work that out?"

Clint didn't answer, and Gwen spent the rest of the flight occupied with her information packet. There were three crime lords they'd have to take down, with no pictures and only pseudonyms to go on.

They went by 'The Swordsman', 'Trickshot' and 'Crossfire', respectively, and although Crossfire was relatively new on the scene, Trickshot and the Swordsman had been around the block a time or two.

Their rap sheets were ridiculous, and for Merlin's sake, why weren't their names and photographs provided?

"Swordsman's old," Clint began, settled in a nondescript SUV, impatient in the gridlocked traffic, "He'd be in his 60's by now, if I had to guess. He's frighteningly competent with knives, however. I advise _never_ letting your guard down around him.

"Crossfire is an unknown. I've never heard of him before. Trickshot, however… He's my hit, okay?"

Gwen met Clint's gaze in the rearview mirror, nodded jerkily, and cast her gaze back towards the street beyond her window. New York City was so much like London, but at the same time, it wasn't, and despite herself, Gwen had spent much of the drive people watching.

As she absently took note of the nameless, faceless passers by, she contemplated Clint's information, her lower lip caught between her teeth. Clint seemed to have some sort of beef where the Swordsman and Trickshot were concerned, and although Gwen knew all too well about personal grudges, she wondered if it was a conflict of interest. Moreover, if it _was_ a conflict of interest, did it need to be reported? She wasn't one to tattle, but neither was Gwen familiar with SHIELD's protocol for these kinds of situations.

Apparently, Natasha could read her mind, because she met Gwen's gaze in the left rearview mirror, and shook her head minutely. Gwen nodded in acknowledgement, leant further back in her seat, and took the opportunity to clear her mind of unnecessary distractions. Her breaths slowed, her eyes closed, and for a time, Gwen was in another place, free from the ghosts and demons at her back.

"Coney Island?" Natasha queried, tone tinged with the lightest hint of amusement. "Really?"

"Jacques has a place there," he explained mildly, and clarified, "Jacques is the Swordsman. I have a feeling they've stored the Stark tech elsewhere, though."

"No matter," Gwen answered, "We can find out, and someone else can go collect it."

The rest of their drive was spent in companionable silence. Before long, however, Clint had pulled up a street away from the Swordsman's apartment complex, and the trio were headed to the apartment building across the road. They were both four storey walk-ups, worn with time and a distinct lack of TLC, and Gwen idly wondered if they were even occupied.

"This place is a dump," Natasha said flatly. She was stood near the fire escape, her gaze on Jacques' building, and Gwen was inclined to agree with her. Miscellaneous piles of trash, questionable and otherwise, littered the rooftop, as did however many odd years of accumulated dirt and grime. The random article of clothing completed the sight, and Gwen grimaced.

Clint grunted. "What did you expect; a palace? Jacques' apartment's on the top floor, left above the external door. They'll be in there - I guarantee it."

Gwen wasn't inclined to argue with the man whom, out of the three of them, knew their targets best. All the same, she was mildly perplexed by the distinct lack of wealth on display. In her experience, limited as it may be, crime lords generally made an effort to flaunt their success, and this rundown corner of Coney Island was the farthest thing from that their targets could get.

Nevertheless, she withdrew a pair of binoculars from the bag Natasha had handed her before they'd left the Triskelion, turned her focus towards the apartment window in question, and nearly choked on her own tongue.

"What?" Romanov queried. She retrieved her own set of binoculars, joined Gwen at the edge of the rooftop, and tried to seek out what Gwen had seen. As she did, Clint hissed at them to at least _try_ to be covert, but he went ignored.

"That's Will."

Will, her friendly bartender from Colwyn Bay, who'd headed off to travel the world, whom, Gwen had assumed, knew squat all about the ugly the world had to offer.

Apparently, she was sorely mistaken. Instead, it seemed he was _part_ of that ugly.

"He's supposed to be in Moscow," she said lightly, dropped back to lean against the roof's edge, and closed her eyes to the afternoon sky overhead. "Apparently, he's not."

Clint joined Natasha's vigil without acknowledging Gwen's words, and both Swordsman and Trickshot were marked over the next hour. NO one else was, however, and it wasn't difficult to conclude that Will - her friend - was Crossfire. It was a bitter pill to swallow, and the bite of betrayal stung something fierce, but it wasn't the first time she'd experienced that kind of pain, and Gwen doubted it would be the last.

"Do you know the layout of this place?" Natasha asked Clint.

"Yes," Clint confirmed, and proceeded to rattle off the specifics in painstaking detail. Gwen listened attentively, but when he was done, her mind returned to Will, and the discomforting reality that she'd not known him at all.

"What's the plan, then? Do we go in, guns blazing?"

"We do that, and we'll be skewered before we make it over the threshold," Clint answered, "Jacques won't have let his knife skills deteriorate over the years, and Trick's almost as good an archer as I am."

Gwen honestly struggled to believe that, but on the job, Clint wasn't inclined to exaggerate, and especially not with regards to archery.

Moreover, it wasn't as if there was another forthcoming source of information. She - and Natasha - would simply have to take their friend at his word.

"Do you know of any of Crossfire's strengths or weaknesses, Nightshade?" Natasha queried. She'd adorned her gauntlets sometime over the course of that afternoon, but she also held a pair of twin daggers in hand, and overall, it made for a remarkably intimidating sight.

"I don't know," Gwen admitted, "I didn't know him for very long, honestly, and I wonder if I actually knew him at all. The only thing that really comes to mind is that he's fast. Other than that though…"

Natasha studied Gwen for a moment, her expression inscrutable. "Can you kill him, Gwen?"

Gwen grimaced, turned away, and met Clint's gaze from half way across the roof. His gaze was squinted against the sunset, his hair golden in the evening light. He, too, wore an indiscernible expression, but with her gaze on him, he offered her a small, fleeting smile, and Gwen found all the resolve she needed.

"I'll do what I have to, Natasha. Whatever is necessary to get the job done."

"Good." The Black Widow smiled, though there was no mirth behind the expression. Here was the killing machine the Red Room had made her become, and Gwen was left oddly empty.

The rest of their time was spent planning out their attack. Each was aware that no plan ever survived contact with the enemy, but it seemed to be a ritual Clint and Natasha had created for themselves, and Gwen wasn't about to oppose their little ritual. They organised a rendezvous point as well - just in case things went south - and a fair few contingency plans as well, and Gwen could almost imagine she was back in the war, about to infiltrate another Death Eater stronghold.

"It's time," Clint determined, gaze on the grey sky overhead. The sun had dipped below the horizon, Coney Island was left in a heavy, anticipatory twilight, and Gwen's heart had begun to race. "Are you ready?"

Clint met her gaze again, bright and blue and fathomless, pooling with an emotion she didn't want to decipher. She strained a smile instead, and ignored the way her belly swooped.

"As I'll ever be," she confirmed, accepted the earpiece and battery pack offered to her, and approached the fire escape with a knot of nerves heavy in her stomach. She descended quickly, Natasha and Clint shortly thereafter, and they crossed the street towards the building they'd observed all afternoon.

It seemed vastly more ominous in the absence of daylight, but as Gwen approached the building's external door, Gwen steeled her nerves. She'd faced a lot more scarier things, after all.

From the corner of her eye, she observed Clint and Natasha disappear around the side of the building - headed towards the fire escape. - Gwen flicked on her earpiece, already at the external door, and picked the lock.

Natasha's voice crackled through her earpiece. "Let us know when you've cleared the stairs."

"Will do," Gwen murmured, already on her way up. As she did, she noted that the rest of the building was uncharacteristically empty, and as worn down as the exterior. "Are you two ready?"

"Almost," Clint answered. As he did, Gwen cleared the last flight of stairs, and murmured as much. "Alright," Clint acknowledged, "On your mark, Nightshade."

Gwen nodded, approached the last door on the right, and exhaled slowly. It was showtime, and she wasn't about to disappoint.

 **Author's Note:** let it be known that I'm not great at action scenes. I'll spend some time obsessing over the next chapter, I think. I also may have to change the rating to M, but either way, wish me luck. Until next time, -t.


	12. Part I: Chapter Eleven

**Code Of Conduct**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter or Avengers. All recognisable characters, content or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: Living With Ghosts**

" _Life is about choices. Some we regret, some we're proud of. Some will haunt us forever." - Graham Brown._

 **Chapter Eleven: Turmoil**

 _24th - 25th February - 2005_

Gwen knocked on the door, and Will answered.

He hadn't changed much in three months. He looked tired, drawn and weary in a way that seemed out of place on his features, but otherwise, he appeared the same: tousled hair, blue eyes, thin build. She wondered if he'd been involved with organised crime in Wales, and if Gwen had just been too blind to notice. If not, she wondered what had brought him to this point, stealing from the US military, and associating with washed out criminals like Trickshot and The Swordsman.

Perhaps the most disturbing change was the gun Gwen could see tucked into the waist of his low slung jeans, but she had a job, and Gwen tried not to get distracted by the sight.

"Hi, Will," she greeted, "Long time no see."

"Gwen," he answered flatly, "What are you doing here? How did you even _find_ me?"

"Coincidence," she answered, "I picked the lock downstairs, you know? Shit security, by the way. _Will you walk with me_?"

Her objective was to separate Crossfire from his allies. She was to find out where the Stark Industries shipment was being stored, and once accomplished, she was to either capture - or take out - Crossfire; by any means necessary.

He hesitated, but seemed to consider Gwen, with her disillusioned weapons, a non-threat, because he nodded, donned a pair of flip flops by the door, and stepped into the hallway. He closed the door behind him, and halfway towards the stairs, Gwen struck with a swift kick to the side of Will's knee.

Without expecting it, he dropped to the floor with a howl of pain, and Gwen took the opportunity to handcuff his wrists. She divested him of his weapons, and with a murmured apology in Welsh, she knocked him unconscious.

The questions could come later.

At the same time, Clint and Trickshot were circling each other, armed with nothing but their own fists. Natasha watched from the sidelines, a disapproving frown on her face. Clint had become emotionally compromised, and as Gwen stepped into the doorway, she could understand why. She wasn't sure how they'd missed it earlier, but with them side by side, the resemblance between Clint and Trickshot was uncanny.

Was this the brother who'd tried to kill him?

"The Swordsman is dead," Natasha murmured quietly, "Where is Crossfire?"

"Unconscious, with a broken leg and his hands cuffed behind his back," Gwen answered, "I figured the questions could come later. He's not going anywhere."

Natasha nodded her acknowledgement, and in front of them, Trickshot lunged for Clint. Clint stepped aside, and they each realised - belatedly - that it was a ruse. Trickshot was already on the fire escape, but as Clint made to follow, Gwen became aware of a constant, discomforting beeping.

"We have to go," natasha declared. Her tone was flat, but there was a certain urgency in her gaze, and Gwen could understand why.

Clint, blessedly, didn't argue, and instead, he led the way out of the apartment. Crossfire was hauled over his shoulders with a grunt, and quickly, the three of them hurried downstairs and out of the building. They sought refuge in the one across the street, and Gwen watched, transfixed, as the building went up in an explosion of flames.

A distant part of her mind conjured up the faint memory of screams and smoke, of tears and cries for help that had come too late. The aftermath had been horrifying; severed limbs, charred corpses, and the pungent stench of burnt flesh. Then there were the tears, the despair, the absolute devastation. It was Diagon Alley, it had been January of 2002, and Gwen had struggled to step foot in it since.

"I'll go get the car," Natasha said crisply. She retreated from the small apartment, and in the wake of her exit, the silence was suffocating.

"She's pissed," Clint observed.

"Yes," Gwen confirmed, and added glibly, "A head's up might have been nice."

Gwen couldn't find it in herself to feel angry with him. She understood the sting of betrayal, and moreover, the sometimes all-consuming desire for revenge that inevitably followed. How long had Clint waited to cross paths with his brother? How long had he waited to receive his answers, or more likely, the pound of flesh he was owed?

"She'll get over it," Gwen determined. She offered him an encouraging smile, and turned her attention to other matters. While Clint bowed his head in thought, Gwen approached Will, revived him with an 'enervate' to the chest, and asked, "Where is the SI shipment, Will?"

The former bartender's pupils blew wide, but he remained stubbornly silent. She had to admire his fortitude, at least, because broken bones weren't pleasant, and she hadn't been merciful when she had hyperextended his knee.

"Will, you're looking at a long time in a US federal prison. I doubt they'll take kindly to a foreigner in their midst. Cooperate, please?"

William grimaced, but he at least relented. The address was rattled off quickly, and Clint sent a message to Coulson with the details. An acknowledging message was returned, and at the same time, Natasha pulled up outside. Gwen stunned Will once again, Clint hauled him over his shoulders, and they made their way towards the car.

"Quick response," Gwen observed. She gestured to the emergency vehicles already gathering outside the burning building, "Who called it in, anyway? This place looks abandoned."

Clint grunted. "Who cares?"

Gwen shrugged as she pulled open the back door, and buckled Will in. Clint rolled his shoulders, and the witch supposed Will's dead weight wasn't an easy burden to bear. She was surprised that he'd managed it, actually, but as she clambered into the seat behind Clint, Gwen wasn't about to admit it.

A man's pride probably couldn't take it.

Then again, what did she know?

"There's a jet waiting for us," Clint told Natasha. Then he made himself comfortable in his seat, closed his eyes, and presumably, he fell asleep.

The drive passed in silence, they reached the New York SHIELD base without incident, and an unconscious Will was left to the mercies of the on-site medics and base security. Gwen watched him disappear out of sight, and there was a weight on her chest that made it difficult to breathe. Guilt, perhaps. Disappointment. Regret. Any number of things, really.

They had gathered the information they'd needed, the mission was a success, but as Clint gently guided her towards the jet, Gwen had never felt more like a failure.

"Can you stop by a bottle shop?" Clint requested. He'd made the executive decision to accompany her home, and Gwen was weary enough not to protest. Plus, she didn't want to be alone, and Clint had probably become her best friend in the US.

"Sure," she acknowledged, "Will you buy me a bottle of whisky?"

Clint managed a tired chuckle, but he nodded. "Johnny Walker?"

"It'll do," she acknowledged, and quietly longed for the Ogden's Finest she'd come to appreciate so much, "Red label, please. I've not indulged in a while."

"As you wish."

They eventually made it to Georgetown, and to her home shortly thereafter. She flicked on the lights and her stereo, and wandered into the kitchen. Lottie had left it spotless, unsurprisingly, and therefore, it wasn't difficult to seek out a pair of crystal tumblers. She poured herself a blend of rum and coke, and watched idly as Clint poured his own black label. They toasted to bad missions, Gwen savoured the flavour on her tongue, and together, they drank.

"I guess I'm not surprised," Clint mused, "Barney was always good at running."

"You'll catch him," Gwen answered, "I doubt there's anyone in the world who knows him better than you do."

"Maybe I'll even manage it without compromising my team at the same time."

Clint's mouth pulled into a lopsided approximation of a smile, though it didn't meet his gaze. He was tired, and hurting, and she should have been too, but for the life of her, all Gwen could focus on was Clint's lips, and the desire to know how they'd feel against her own.

She'd later credit the alcohol and the wonder that was liquid courage, but on impulse, and before she could second guess herself, Gwen leant forward, cupped Clint's jaw, and found out.

It took Clint only a moment to respond. His lips, slightly chapped, nipped at one of hers, while his fingers wound their way through her hair. He leant back against the couch, and Gwen followed, content - even eager - to straddle his thighs. All the while, her pulse thrummed beneath her skin, his lips danced against her own, and by God, he was an extraordinary kisser.

"Fuck," Clint mumbled against her lips, "You're beautiful."

Gwen hummed, low and throaty, clambered to her feet, and tugged Clint to his own. He acquiesced with a laugh, and Gwen reached up to twine her arms around his neck, followed on her toes, and once more, she met his lips with hers.

"Will you come to bed with me?"

Clint studied her expression for an indiscernible amount of time. He seemed content with what he found there - want, certainty and affection, if Gwen was projecting appropriately - and he nodded, kissed her chastely, and offered up a warm, fond smile.

"If you'll have me."

 **Author's Note:** Bit iffy about this chapter. It didn't turn out the way I'd originally planned - there was supposed to be this massive argument between Gwen and Clint that would eventually end up with them in bed - but I don't know, I guess there's something a little more real about this scene instead. At least, I think so. In my experience it is, anyway.

I'm not any good with lemons, but if anyone wants to write what goes down in the bedroom, I'd be happy to read it. Otherwise, I'll leave it up to your imagining.

Does this chapter warrant a rating change, do you suppose?

Anyway, hope you enjoyed. I'd appreciate your thoughts. Thanks for reading. Until next time, -t.


	13. Part I: Chapter Twelve

**Code Of Conduct**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter or Avengers. All recognisable characters, content or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: Living With Ghosts**

" _Life is about choices. Some we regret, some we're proud of. Some will haunt us forever." - Graham Brown._

 _ **Chapter Twelve:**_ **Aftermath**

 _ **25th February, 2005**_

In the morning, Gwen woke to find Clint stretched out along the other side of her bed. He slept on his stomach, his arms tucked under his pillow and his expression peaceful in slumber, but as the sun crept over the eastern horizon and through her bedroom window, Gwen knew she would have to wake him. If nothing else, they were expected at the Triskelion by nine o'clock, but before that, she wanted to clear the air before any assumptions or conclusions were made. Moreover, clear boundaries made life mildly easier, and the teenaged angst and melodrama had grown old years ago.

"Clint," she murmured, and flicked his forehead, "Wake up, birdbrain."

It was startling, really. Clint was asleep one moment, and awake the next, coherent and alert in a way that spoke of extensive training, and even more experience. She was that way too, Gwen knew, but she'd never seen the habit on another person. Her previous bed partners had never stayed until morning, and her former team had never been watched so closely.

"Gwen,"he greeted, voice raspy with sleep, "Morning."

"Morning," she echoed, and studied Clint's features carefully. His expression was artfully neutral, his jaw shadowed by stubble, and Gwen could pick up nothing from his mask. "Do you regret last night?"

"I don't. Do you?"

"No," she replied. Her chest felt heavy, as though her heart was prepared to leap out her ribcage, "Far from it, Clint."

Clint smiled, lazy and lopsided, turned on his side, and stretched out an arm over the sheets. He settled his hand at the curve of her waist, squeezed lightly, and acknowledged, "Good."

Then he closed his eyes, and went back to sleep.

Gwen stared for a moment, then snorted, clambered out of bed, and retreated into her adjoining bathroom. She showered, dressed, and contemplated herself in the mirror. Her hair was it's usual disarray, but a small, irrepressible smile tugged at her lips, and Gwen felt happy.

When was the last time she had?

Gwen couldn't remember.

After Gwen had been shown the office she would share with Natasha and Clint, she was unwillingly introduced to the monotony that was paperwork. It was dull, tedious work, and her companions, Natasha and Clint, appeared as bored as Gwen herself, but apparently it was standard procedure after any sort of field operation, and who was she to contest the status quo?

All the same, she was entirely too eager to drop her pen when Agent Coulson made an appearance in their doorway. He wore his usual implacable expression, but Gwen noted a crease at the corners of his eyes, and stored it away for future reference.

Perhaps her handler wasn't nearly as unreadable as she'd initially assumed.

"Crossfire has been taken out of the med bay. We intend to question him shortly."

"And you would like us there?" Natasha assumed. She appeared unfazed, and Gwen wished she could boast the same.

She couldn't. Instead, the good mood she'd harboured all morning had disappeared like a whisper in the wind, and her stomach churned with that same tumult of emotion from the day prior. Guilt. Disappointment. Regret. William Jones - her friendly bartender from The Bay - was about to be interrogated by her new employers, and all Gwen could really wonder was whether or not she'd really known him at all.

Did she really want to find out?

Did she even have a choice?

"It would be appreciated," Coulson answered, and Gwen wondered if she'd imagined the dry inflection to his words.

"Where is he being held?" Clint queried. He was occupied with the task of balancing a pencil on his nose, and Gwen was almost tempted to throw an eraser at his face. His apathy was irksome, if justifiable.

He'd not known Crossfire, after all.

"Interrogation Room 4. Be there in half an hour."

With that, Coulson departed, and Gwen was left in the company of Clint and Natasha, and the spiralling abyss her thoughts had become. She doubted herself, and her capabilities as an agent of SHIELD, because how could she have missed that her friend was a criminal, and a big time one at that? She'd been trained to pick up on those sorts of things, and yet, Gwen hadn't even considered the thought. It had seemed so far out of the realm of possibility as to be laughable, and yet here they were, four months later, and on opposite sides of the law.

She gave a rattling sigh, picked up her pen, and finished up the last of her paperwork.

"You alright?" Clint queried. Natasha walked ahead, ostensibly to offer them a sense of privacy, and Gwen appreciated the gesture. She didn't have an answer though, and thus she shrugged, crossed her arms over her chest, and offered him a feeble smile. In response, Clint draped a heavy arm over her shoulders, tugged her against his side, and pressed a kiss into her hair. As he did, Gwen idly wondered about SHIELD's fraternisation policy, and decided she didn't give a damn.

Together, they stepped into the waiting elevator, and stood in silence as it travelled downwards. It, eventually, came to a stop in sub-basement 3, and as soon as they stepped out, they had to pass through another security scan.

"What's that you said about no more security procedures, Widow?" Gwen quipped.

"Extenuating circumstances," she answered easily. Despite herself, Gwen laughed. "Come on, Coulson is waiting."

Gwen's smile dropped, and with a reluctant sigh, she followed her team members to Interrogation Room 5. It was separated from the hallway by an observation bay, and that was where they found Agent Coulson, accompanied by a woman Gwen hadn't yet met.

"This is Agent Maria Hill," Coulson informed her, "She'll be leading the interrogation today."

A brief moment was spent to observe the pleasantries, but then Agent Hill had stepped into the interrogation room, and the four others were left to observe.

Gwen herself studied Will - or Crossfire - and she didn't like what she saw. He was disconcertingly calm, an easy smile on his face, and a part of Gwen froze inside. He wore the face of a career criminal, and although it guaranteed a lengthy interrogation, it also furthered Gwen's self-doubt.

How in Godric's name had she missed it?

"William Cross," Hill's voice carried through the speakers, and Gwen arched a surprised eyebrow. She didn't recognise the name. Will did though, since he smirked, apparently pleased. "I have some questions to ask you."


	14. Part I: Chapter Thirteen

**Code Of Conduct**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter or Avengers. All recognisable characters, content or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: Living With Ghosts**

" _Life is about choices. Some we regret, some we're proud of. Some will haunt us forever." - Graham Brown._

 **Chapter Thirteen: Advice**

In her own time, Gwen researched. The SHIELD database was a wealth of knowledge, and it didn't take her particularly long to find what she sought. The depth of depravity Cross Incorporations hid beneath a vernier of humanitarianism and positive press was loathsome, the CEO, William Cross senior, more so.

Worse, however, was what she uncovered with regards to William Cross Junior.

He'd been raised by his disillusioned mother, Meredith Jones, in Colwyn Bay, where he'd spent his childhood involved in petty crimes - petty theft, vandalism, public nudity - and later drug trafficking based out of Cardiff. He'd been absorbed into his father's illegal trades seamlessly, and he'd spent the last five odd years creating a name for himself within the underbelly of Europe, North America, and to a lesser extent, Asia.

It was, unfortunately, not only drugs trafficking, but most every other form of trafficking trade imaginable: weapons, organs, _humans_ \- it went on - and again, Gwen doubted herself.

How had she not seen it?

Was it simply that Gwen had not _wanted_ to see, or was it something else entirely?

Brought from her thoughts as her - their - office door clicked open, she glanced up, and relaxed upon sight of Clint in the doorway.

"This is really eating you up inside," he observed.

"I just…"

"You were fresh out of a war," Clint reminded her, "PTSD, right? Not to mention, you were grieving, you were rebuilding your life from scratch. No one holds this against you, Gwen."

"I hold this against _myself_ ," she answered, "How can I do this job properly, when I can't even pick up on the fact a bloke I called a friend was actually up to his armpits in international trafficking?"

"That's the thing," Clint answered, "You weren't working at the time. You weren't looking for criminals, or murderers, or traffickers. You were retired, and that's not particularly conducive to kicking ass. Why are you dwelling on this?"

Gwen grimaced, unable to offer up a reason why. She'd learned, early on, that there was no point dwelling on past mistakes. They couldn't be changed, and all she could do was learn from them, and to make sure she wouldn't repeat them in future. And yet, Gwen couldn't let it go.

Clint cupped her face. "Don't let this mistake define your career here, Gwen. There will be other successes, other failures, and you can't dwell on the first."

She sighed. "I know. But that's easier said than done. He played me like a fiddle."

Clint arched a blonde eyebrow, and crossed his arms over his chest. "What are you going to do about it?"

She paused to consider her answer, and a slow, calculating smile crossed her face. "I'm going to get even, of course."

He nodded, unsurprised. "I thought so."

-!- -#-

'The Golden Rose' was a cafe located in downtown DC. It was the capitol's equivalent of 'The Leaky Cauldron', and to its credit, it was significantly cleaner, too. Gwen had never visited it, but she'd staked the place out her first week in the US, and thus, she didn't have trouble locating it once again.

"Hello," she greeted, and made no attempt to smother her accent, "I was hoping to receive directions to Elizabeth Avenue."

"Out back," the barista replied, "You can't miss it."

Gwen nodded her thanks, retreated to the back of the shop, and found herself in an empty alleyway. She cast her gaze around, bewildered, but before her, an archway shimmered into being, and through it, Gwen caught sight of a paved strip mall so much - and not at all - like Diagon Alley as to send a pang of loss through her heart.

Diagon Alley would never be the same again.

With an unsteady breath, Gwen stepped through the arch, cast her gaze up and down the avenue, and determined she was well and truly out of her depth. It had been over a year since she'd stepped foot into any sort of singularly magical community, and moreover, the British were so far removed from the US as to be laughable, and Gwen had no idea where to start. Then she caught sight of a standing directory to her right, and she smiled to herself.

It was exactly what she needed.

Eventually, Gwen found her way to a nursery, and proceeded to purchase everything she'd need to create veritaserum. It was an X grade restricted substance, and thus she couldn't simply buy it at the local chemist, but she'd learned to brew it with the unspeakables, and thus, she didn't _need_ to.

The annoying thing, however, was that it took a month to make, and she unfortunately didn't have any in stock. She wasn't a Potions master, after all, and the only things she _did_ keep in stock were liquidised poisons.

There was probably an irony in there, though Gwen didn't care to dwell on it.

Instead, she returned to the Triskelion, dropped into Clint's lap, and pressed a sloppy kiss to his cheek. Even as he frowned at her, Clint wrapped his arms around her middle.

"Now I have your spit on my face."

"You'll live," Gwen answered, lightly scratched her nails across his scalp, and continued, "Thank you for earlier. I needed that kick up the arse."

"No problem," he answered, pressed a lingering kiss to her lips, and then turned back to the backlog of paperwork he'd been putting off for ages. "Happy to help. Do you want to help in return?"

"With your paperwork? I don't think so, Barton."

Gwen returned to her own desk, dropped heavily in her swivel chair, and opened up a game of Tetris to pass the time. When she got home, she'd start with the veritaserum, but until then, she had an afternoon free. Natasha was filing her nails at her own desk, and Usher was filtering from Clint's speakers, and Gwen wondered why she had to be in the office at all.

She asked as much, and Natasha explained.

"Team rule," Clint explained, "The team that kicks ass together, does paperwork together."

"That's a shit rule," Gwen determined. Clint offered her the finger, Gwen laughed, and the afternoon passed. Before long, it was early evening, Clint was done, and Gwen had revenge to organise. She would make William Jones, or Cross, or whatever his name was sing like a canary, or so help her Godric, he would make her crazy.

Thus, she went home, she unearthed all of her Potions supplies, and she began to prepare. It was weird to brew again, but her stride was easy to pick up, and it was as though she'd been brewing every day for the last twelve months.

And most surprisingly of all, she enjoyed it more than she could say.

 **Author's Note:** Hope you enjoyed. Big thanks for all of your support. Leave a review, and share your thoughts. They're always appreciated. Except flames. Anyway, until next time, -t.


	15. Part I: Chapter Fourteen

**Code Of Conduct**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter or Avengers. All recognisable characters, content or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Part One: Living With Ghosts**

" _Life is about choices. Some we regret, some we're proud of. Some will haunt us forever." - Graham Brown._

 **Chapter Fourteen: Restless**

 _5th - 6th April, 2005_

Once the veritaserum had been made and administered, William Cross sang like a canary. The interrogation team, led by Maria Hill, pulled as much information as William could give before, finally, they began to make arrangements to see him put to trial, and eventually, imprisoned. Meanwhile, the SHIELD analysts began to study all of the information William had provided, and as word filtered down the grapevine, Gwen learned that it wasn't pretty.

Apparently, William Cross (Senior) had been selling men, women, and children to buyers intent on human experiments of the unethical variety, and that was only the beginning. Cross Incorporated had a laundry list of illegal dealings to their name, and there was no possible way they could cover up everything.

The most disturbing thing, however, was the knowledge that even as they sold people to other contractors, they themselves had been experimenting to create a genetically engineered super race of humans and animals to meet their own ends, whatever those were.

"What do you think will happen?" Gwen queried. She was with Clint in a dive bar in downtown DC, it was the end of their work week, and the month-long hiatus from missions had grown tiresome.

"The usual," Clint answered, "One of the strike teams - us, most likely - will be sent in to clean up the mess, rescue civilians, that kind of thing. Someone will inevitably escape, and yet another bad guy will crop up out of the wood work, like they always do."

"That's rather cynical of you, Clint," Gwen jested.

"I like to think of it as realism," he answered mildly.

"If it looks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, then it's a duck, love."

Clint shrugged, unfazed, and washed down the last of his chips - pardon, _fries_ \- with a mouthful of rum and coke. Gwen eyed it, envious, sipped her lemonade, and reminded herself that her 21st was only 16 months away.

When it eventually arrived, she would get herself absolutely sloshed, and she would do so without regrets.

"You ready to go?"

Gwen nodded, drained the rest of her drink, and followed her partner out of the bar.

"Are you staying at mine tonight?" She asked him. Clint generally spent a few nights a week at her place, or alternatively, Gwen sometimes crashed at his. 4 nights out of 7 were spent alone, however, and given that they'd only been 'together' for a month or so, it was probably a good thing. Maybe.

Clint shrugged. "Sure."

They stopped by his apartment in order for Clint to retrieve the things he'd need, and reached Gwen's place as night fell. Lottie met them in the kitchen, enquired as to whether or not they'd bee around for dinner, and then disappeared into the kitchen when Gwen offered her their confirmation.

"How does a movie sound?"

"Sounds great," Clint answered. He dropped onto the sofa, kicked off his boots, and added, "Just no chick flicks, please."

"But they're the best," Gwen teased, her 'Titanic' DVD in hand. "Are you sure?"

Clint offered her a deadpan glare, and Gwen acquiesced with a laugh. She instead settled on 'The Day After Tomorrow', and her companion, blessedly, did not protest.

Partway through the film, as Gwen finished up a helping of the dinner Lottie had served, Clint's phone blared to life, and the witch glanced in his direction. Clint spoke briefly to the person on the other end of the line, hung up, and exhaled deeply.

"Everything alright?"

"That was Coulson," Clint answered, "He wants us in the office tomorrow at six o'clock."

"Why so early?" She wondered.

"We've got a job," he answered, "I don't know the details, but it's fairly safe to assume Cross Incorporated is involved.."

Clint shot off a text to Natasha, Gwen slumped against his side, and they watched the rest of the film in silence. She wasn't sure how much Clint paid attention, but most of Gwen's thoughts were on the day ahead, and on the friendship she had lost to selfish greed and ambition.

Lottie silently cleared away the dishes, the time ticked by, and the hour grew late.

"Let's go to bed," Clint encouraged. "We've got an early start tomorrow."

Gwen acquiesced with a nod, locked up, and bade Lottie a restful sleep. Clint was in the shower by the time she'd reached her bedroom, and Gwen, briefly, considered joining him. Clint had the habits of a soldier though, and the water had stopped running before she could decide if the close quarters and awkward angles would be worth the new experience.

"Shower's free."

"You don't say?"

With his quick reflexes, Clint slipped passed her guard before Gwen could mount a defence. His questing fingers found her ribcage, and Gwen squirmed away, laughing.

"Smartass," he said affectionately, cuffed her below the chin, and proceeded to get dressed for the night. Gwen left him to it, and retreated into the bathroom. In the mirror, she saw that the smile on her face lingered, chased away the shadows in her eyes, and brought a content flush to her cheeks.

She could grow used to this kind of contentment.

-!- -#-

Despite Gwen's earlier good mood, her sleep was restless. Concerns about their upcoming mission plagued her thoughts, and not even Clint - and his absurdly dexterous fingers - could relax her enough to fall asleep.

She'd been the same during the war, she recalled, far too wired for any sort of rest before planned raids and what have you. It had never hampered her abilities in combat - not obviously, anyway - but she was rather inclined to break the unfortunate habit.

"What's wrong? Clint wondered, voice made husky by sleep.

Gwen shuffled backwards until she rested against his chest, and answered, "Just restless, I think."

Clint traced circles into the curve of her hip, and hummed his acknowledgement. He was already on his way back to dreamland. "Try relax."

Unimpressed by his advice, Gwen glared into the gloom, unwilling to turn to glare at him. She'd disturbed his rest enough already, and at least one of them should get a decent night's sleep. It wouldn't be her, of course, but she'd managed on fumes before. She would be just fine, and Clint and Natasha would be, too.

She wouldn't allow anything less.

 **Author's Note:** Whew, sorry for the long wait. I wouldn't say it was writer's block, though that was particularly irritating. Actually, I only started writing this chapter last week. I guess I was inspired by other things. Check them out, if you haven't already? Or not.

Hope you enjoyed. Leave a review. -t.


End file.
